


Snowbound

by evil_whimsey



Category: Ouran High School Host Club - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blackbirdverse, M/M, Not Happily Ever After, experiments in chronology
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-16
Updated: 2015-12-27
Packaged: 2018-03-01 19:20:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 23,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2784761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evil_whimsey/pseuds/evil_whimsey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"What happened, Mori would later reflect, when he was at leisure to repent for many things, was that it all got pushed to the back of his mind, where it simmered.  This vague, nagging sense of something amiss.  Something left unfinished."</i>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>A story told in snapshots, taking place during the year after <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/1077076/chapters/2163608">Learn To Fly</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lost/Forecast

Lost

He's spent a lot of time in the dojo, since Arai left. Working with his weapons, and working the stiffness out of his muscle memory. Whether he's punishing himself, or simply anchoring himself to the world with the most exacting work he can manage, he isn't entirely sure. He does know that when he isn't working, he loses track of things; coming to in random parts of the house, staring out the windows at darkness and bleak frigid skies. And he knows what that leads to, he knows how easy it would be to become lost now.

But the dojo has always been safe for him. It's all right to leave the world outside that threshold, to dismiss all the things that prick and haunt him; his mistakes, misunderstandings, his sins of omission. He thinks that as long as he can still find his balance here, there is still hope. That somehow, he'll be able to find it outside here again, as well.

It's the eighth day without a call, or a message, or even a hurried delivery of supplies from town. But Mori thinks he's getting the hang of it. The trick is to only think about it in small doses. Like taking sips from a bitter, scalding drink. He thought when he woke up in the morning, _This is Day Six, and it was my fault_ , and then he breathed through the hurt until he could get dressed. _This is Day Seven_ , he'd thought yesterday, forehead propped against the smooth icy glass of the library window. _I could have asked him to stay._ And then he went and stared at his lunch, until it went cold.

Today is Day Eight, and he thinks tomorrow he can call Mitsukuni and take the round scolding he has earned, for not listening when he should have, and he will accept all his errors with dignity, and there will be no more regrets for all the things he has understood too late.

**

He surfaces from the third form of the Seitei kata, when a noisy gust of wind rattles the poolhouse door. He glances to the window expecting to see the same dreary gray, outside only to realize that time has slipped past him again. All he sees is black beyond the glass.

A harder gust knocks against the window shutters, and Mori realizes that no, it isn't full night yet. It's the latest winter storm, coming on much sooner than predicted. A blizzard, forecasters had said, expected to dump record snowfall on the whole region.

He switches off the heater, pulls on his socks, shoes, and coat, flips off the lights and opens the door on a sudden freezing gale. The storm wasn't coming, he sees. It's already here.

Through the thick swirling snow, he can just make out the courtyard lights, glinting behind the pool hedge. Already the ground and hedge are heavily dusted, and little drifts are blowing up against the base of the pool house steps. He pulls the door securely shut behind him, making sure it latches firmly, and heads into the storm, ducking his head against the wind.

**

The entrance to the residence wing is closest, but he has the presence of mind to bypass it, thinking that Sakura-san wouldn't appreciate wet footprints tracked across the floors. Instead, he works his way through the courtyard, one hand shielding his eyes from driving snow and wind, as icy air blows up his coat cuffs and down his collar, flapping his hakama against his legs.

He can't see more than a few feet in any direction, and simply steers toward where the lights are brightest, while the wind and snow howl in from every direction, shorting out his internal compass.

The far courtyard gate, leading to the back driveway and the pantry porch, can't be more than fifty meters from the residence wing, but it's off in the darkness beyond the lights, and when Mori fetches up at the rear wall of the house, he immediately decides he's better off looking for the dining room entrance instead. Already his hands have gone numb, and the paving stones are covered in a layer of creaking snow beneath his shoes. Shivering hard enough to make his teeth rattle, he draws his hands back into his coat sleeves, fisting them into the fabric, and feels his way along the stone wall of the house.

The wind spins and cuts at him, dizzying cold, freezing the breath in his throat. Is the dining room ahead or behind him? It's impossible to tell now, blindfolded by the elements as he is. He shuffles forward, one foot in front of the other, ducking his head and blinking away the tears blurring up in his eyes.

After what seems like an abnormally long trip, his arm bumps the frame of the sliding glass door, and he staggers forward and fumbles gratefully for the latch.

No sooner has he hauled the door shut behind him, than Sakura-san appears, in an evident state of agitation, shaking out a large bath towel. "Thank heavens Bocchama made it back inside! I was about to call the groundskeeper to help track you down."

Mori is profoundly glad she hadn't; no one should be out in that weather. As she advances on him with the towel, he manages through his shivering to mention, "Blizzard. Can't see anything outside."  
"Tch. Come along to the kitchen, I have hot coffee ready. We were expecting Bocchama at the residence wing."

"The floors," Mori murmurs, looking regretfully down at the snow he's shed off his boots and clothing, already melting on the dining room rug.

"If Bocchama doesn't mind me saying, he does have house staff to worry over such details, so that he doesn't have to." 

Mori nods under his towel, feeling briefly like a seven-year-old again, under her fond remonstration. The sheer normalcy of it, after the last several days, is comforting. "Thank you, Sakura-san."

His fingers and cheeks sting in the kitchen's warmth, and his socks and shirt are soggy from melted snow. Sakura-san brings him coffee while he's toweling his hair dry, at the kitchen table.  
"Would Bocchama like brandy in his coffee?" she inquires, listing toward the pantry with the mug. "It might help him warm up faster."

And this is true, but his struggle through the storm has depleted him quite enough. Brandy at this point might just send him face-down on the kitchen table for the night.  
"No thank you. It's fine as it is."

He can hear the storm outside, worrying at the ventilation ducts, and hopes the pool house door will stay shut. He probably should've locked it, and secured the window shutters as well. On Hito's advice, he'd been latching the shutters up at the teahouse; the little hilltop structure was too exposed to leave open during storm season. In fact, with this wind, he should probably have--.

The phone jangles, loud and unexpectedly across the kitchen, and Mori jumps. Sakura-san casts him an apologetic look, and hurries to answer.

"Morinozuka residence?"

Mori wraps his fingers around his coffee mug, feeling the heat seep through to thaw his hands. He inhales the steam off the top, and then blows across the liquid to cool it, before taking a sip.

"Why yes, Arai-san. The young master is right here." Sakura-san turns and catches Mori's eye, and it's all he can do not to leap up from his chair. _Day Eight..._ , he thinks.

But then Sakura-san lifts both eyebrows, and says, "No, I'm sorry to say, we haven't seen your nephew at all today."

Slowly, Mori sets down his mug, all at once feeling horribly wide awake, and colder than he'd been out in the storm. 

"Ah, the lake cabins, you say? Well that was certainly good of him to deliver there today. I take it you've called--." She breaks off, listening again and Mori listens too, trying not to choke on the sensation of his heart crawling up into his esophagus.

"Oh? Oh my." Sakura-san covers the receiver, telling Mori, "Arai-kun left the work site at the lake more than an hour ago. His uncle heard the storm warning on the radio, and called to tell him to stay put, but he'd already left."

Mori's internal parts have all gone brittle, frozen, but he's on his feet and Sakura-san blinks at him, still listening to the phone. "Yes, Arai-san. I'm afraid the storm is quite heavy up here. No one should be driving in such weather--what's that?"

"The driveway lights," Mori says, the idea striking him out of nowhere. If Arai was anywhere in the area when the storm hit, surely he'd--.  
"Bocchama?"

"He can't be far from our road," Mori explains, in passing. "If I put on all the lights...." Not bothering to finish, he bolts for the electrical closet in the laundry room, vaguely aware of the panic skidding and skittering in his chest. If he stops to imagine Arai's grocery truck out in the whistling wind and snow, and the country roads so dark--but no. No.

He has to get the lights on first.

**

_Well pump. Kitchen. Courtyard fountains--_ He traces the breaker panel with shaking fingers. Don't think about the cold. Don't think about the danger of snow drifts gathering in darkness across the road.

_Front entry._ Ah-ha. Mori throws the breaker. _Main drive 10-12._ He shoves that breaker on. _Main drive 13-20_ , yes, the lights leading down to the mailbox. _Front landscape_. What the hell, might as well light up the trees, too. 

Hopefully, the whole front of the property is lit up like a city parking lot now. On a clear night, it would be visible for half a kilometer down the road. But tonight? Mori had nearly been lost in his own courtyard, lights or no. And if Arai can't reach the turnoff from the main road--.

Don't think about that.

Instead, he stares fiercely at the breaker panel, as though he might interrogate it for answers. There has to be something else he can do. The longer he stands still, the more chance his aggressive suspicions have to take shape and dig their teeth into him. He has to think clearly. He has to be acting, now.

He leaves the breaker panel and heads back to the kitchen. Sakura-san will know what to do. She's been weathering winters out here for years. And for that matter, there's Hito, who'd--.

Hito's apartment is over the garage. And there are vehicles in the garage.

Mori sweeps into the kitchen again, barely dodging the tiny woman who stands planted, barring his way, telephone still in hand. "He switched on the front lights, yes, and he's just come back. Yes, I'll tell him." She covers the receiver. "Hito is going with the groundskeeper, down to the garage."

"The skid-steer loader," says Mori, breathless.

"Yes. They'll check the fuel and the battery, but--Takashi-kun, a moment if you please!" Mori had ducked around her, on a beeline for the back door, but jerks to a halt at his given name, spoken in a tone he hasn't heard since childhood.

"We will have to wait until the storm passes," she tells him sternly.  
Fear and agitation are scrabbling at his ribs, and Mori grits his teeth. "He can't be far. I can find him."

"Not in these conditions, I am most grievously sorry. And if you are lost as well, it will do none of us any good."

"I can do something. I must." He'll lose his mind, if he has to stand here and wait.  
"I understand your concern." Sakura-san's voice is firm, even, and Mori can't imagine how she finds it in her. "Be assured that I am every bit as concerned for Arai-kun. I don't believe we'll have to wait long, the weather reports say the storm will move through quickly."

But right now it's a blizzard, dark and blinding, and Arai has been gone for an hour, and no one knows where.

"Please try to think reasonably," Sakura-san says and Mori boggles at her. _Reasonably?_ But the tiny woman draws herself up, and sends him a look that bespeaks fortitude through decades, and far worse circumstances than this.

"If you must do something, go with Kuki-chan to the attic, and find the snow equipment. Bring down anything you feel necessary. I will prepare our first-aid and emergency supplies." Mori feels all the blood leave his face at that. "Hito and the groundskeeper will ready shovels and tools. This certainly won't be the first time we've been called upon to assist in these circumstances."

**

Forecast

Akima-san was right. This is a hell of a storm to be driving in.

Arai keeps his hands even on the steering wheel, backing off the accelerator some more. The headlight beams cut through swirling white and thickening darkness before him, and already it's hard to tell the new gathering of snow from what had been packed and piled to the shoulder by snow plows, three days before.

He can still make out the road a fair distance ahead, though, and the painted lines are still clear. If he keeps to a steady speed, Arai thinks there's every chance he can make it back to town. He sure hopes so.

Akima and the other workers at the lake cabin site had tried to get him stay, wait out the storm, but Arai had declined. For one thing, he didn't want to end up stuck out there with the grocery truck for two or three days. There was supposed to be ice and sleet along with the snow; the roads were going to be nasty until the plows could make it out, and Arai figured he'd be a lot more use down at the grocery, than cooling his heels by the lake for three days.

Plus there was the issue of imposing on the guys for that long. He isn't exactly everybody's best buddy out there, after all, since that mishap a few months back. They all say they don't blame him for how it all came down, but none of the work crew exactly pals around with him anymore either.

He catches himself rubbing at the side of his jaw, where the bruising has long since faded and puts his hand back on the wheel with a stern reminder to himself. This is no time to be dwelling on past mistakes.

He's coming down the ridge road now, a series of switchbacks winding down the foothills. The way the wind is thumping the truck broadside makes him glance uncomfortably at the outer guardrail, all but buried in the old plowed snow. He's doing all right, but it's a long drop down past that rail. He needs to stay sharp.

_Get back to the store, and you can mope all you want_ , he tells himself. _If it's still bugging you, you can shovel a ton of snow in the morning, just like last week, and get it out of your system._

He sighs, guiding the truck through another long down-pitched curve, checking his speed a little more, when a hard pocket of wind blows a solid flurry of white sideways across the road.

"Gettin' real sick of this snow," he mutters, flexing his fingers against the wheel to loosen them. 

Snow sucks, he's decided. It's a bitch to shovel, nerve-wracking to drive in, and the dark dreary afternoon storms always made for a swift early nightfall. Not so bad, if you're tucked in at home, with a hot drink and a blanket by your kotatsu. But out on these long and lonely roads, it's something else. And if you're in a dreary place to begin with, as Arai has been lately, the early darkness falling on miles of desolate frozen countryside just makes it that much worse.

He tries to shut out the high, ghostly whistle of the wind, picking up over the engine's thrumming. It's a creepy sound, one he's never gotten used to, making him feel cold on the inside as well as out. Like the sight of the fields, stark and still under heavy darkening skies. Nothing but wide-open loneliness, he thinks, every direction you turn. No getting away from it.

He has to resist an urge to press the accelerator harder on that thought. To get home faster, put this place behind him, because it's getting to him again.

Of course he knows better. It's impossible to outrun something that's inside you to begin with. He's been trying for awhile now, with no luck.

"I can't force you to talk to me about it," his Uncle had said the other day. "But whatever the trouble is, I don't think shoveling up the sidewalk along with the snow is going to fix it, kid."

Yeah, well talking about it couldn't really fix it either. Not unless you talked to the right person, and that person didn't seem to want to. Not that Arai exactly blames him.

**


	2. Slipped/Drift

Slipped

It had started around the time the pool pump died. Two weeks before summer rolled into harvest season, and Mori had been working for weeks nonstop, from before dawn until late every night. The pool pump wasn't the reason things had gone strange, but that's the event he remembers, out of the blur of everything else. That was when the dreams began to plague him; when he realized time was slipping too fast through his fingers, and he couldn't keep up anymore. 

He'd only been guaranteed one summer to secure his future here, and all season he'd felt he was racing against a ticking clock. It seemed every week was a new project; reconstruction on the field roads, improvements to the main house, grounds maintenance. Inspections for the aqueduct had dragged on interminably, but he'd been determined those repairs would begin before winter.

He couldn't later say where all the time had gone, and short of looking back through all the contracting paperwork, he could hardly recall any one day of that summer as distinct from any other. There was only the urgency to work, and then the dead sleep he collapsed into, too late every night.

And then the pool pump ground to a violent halt one night, flooding half the pool house, water pouring out the back of the building, soaking the ground all the way to the stable yard. Mori stood with the contractor, listened to the man explain about the slow leak that had rotted the pump room floor. They could get in a temporary portable pump to empty the pool, but the entire back third of the pool house would have to be dismantled to get the old pump out, and all the rotten flooring removed. If they were lucky, the joists underneath were still sound.

That was when it all consumed him. That was when he truly began to see the cost of his commitment here. That was when his urgency began invading his sleep, taking weird and disturbing forms, and then with Arai....

Somewhere along the way, Mori had lost his balance, with everything. And when the pool pump self-destructed, it all began to show.

**

Drift

Once out of the foothills, the road levels out, but conditions aren't improving, as he'd hoped. The wind is shoving the truck from both sides now, unpredictably, and visibility is half what it had been. He drops his speed further, ten kilometers below the posted limit. Not that he can see the road signs anymore, or much of anything past the hard beam of his headlights. It's coming in thick, white drifts stretching across the lanes already, and snow is sticking to the windshield too.

He flips on the defroster, runs the wipers for a bit, and re-calculates his trip time. Fifteen, twenty minutes to the turnoff for the Morinozuka estate, probably. Assuming he wasn't further slowed down, it would be another forty-five minutes back to town.

_You can always stop at the estate_ , his better sense suggests. _Nobody would blame you, if you did_. And Arai knows it's true, knows it's the smarter option. He'll have to downplay the road conditions to his uncle, as it is; he can already hear himself doing it. _Yeah, I must've been just ahead of it. Wasn't so bad. Plenty of wind, but nothing serious...._

A sharp gust hits the truck broadside, and Arai grimaces, gripping the wheel to correct the swerve. He blows out a heavy breath, nerves jangling. Okay, he'd felt that one. He shifts his grip to rub the damp off his palms, keeping his eyes on the painted lines, peeking and hiding through shifting white.

A smart person would stop at the estate. Sakura-san would be happy to fuss over him, and Kuki-chan too, if she was around. Hito would of course cheerfully regale him with stories half the night; legendary mountain storms of four decades ago, cattle frozen in the fields, and avalanches carrying houses down mountainsides.

(And Takashi....)

Run the wipers, ease off the gas, eyes on the road. Arai pulls another long breath, around the thing in his chest, harsh and sharp as a shovel scraping concrete. He's getting better at it, with practice.

_"I should get going,"_ Arai had told him last week. _"There's weather coming in."_  
The weather had been a good twelve hours off, and they'd both known it. The real reason he'd had to leave was already there, right between them. But those were the last words he'd spoken, to Takashi. And no matter how much snow he'd shoveled, furiously, four days later, he couldn't think of anything more to say. Not anything he thought would make a difference, anyway.

And thinking about it didn't help at all, especially not now.

The gas station is just thirty minutes off. He can make it there. Camp out until the plows come to fuel up, eat yakitori with Masao-san's crazy old cousin, until it comes out his ears. There won't be any trouble at the gas station. No awkward tension, no inexplicable dead ends to conversations.

The wipers are scraping up slush now; looks like the sleet is coming in. Great. Visibility isn't worth a damn, but Arai thinks he feels the road banking, beginning the long northward curve which straightened out just before the road forked; east leading to town, and north going to the estate.

_Take the north fork, dummy_ , his conscience warns. _If he doesn't want to see you, it's a big house. But at least you're out of this mess._

"Twenty minutes from the gas station," he mutters grimly to the windshield. Oh great, now he's arguing with himself? "Got a craving for yakitori, anyway."

Heading into the curve, he eases back on the gas a little more.

Linden trees line the road along the curve, either side, which cuts the worst of the wind and snow. He's glad to relax his arms, catch a breath from fighting the steering wheel. He wipes the sweat from one hand and then the other, on the front of his coat, and reaches for the heater controls to switch on the bottom vents. The defroster is working great on the windows, but his feet are clammy and chilled in his boots.

Nearing the end of the curve, his common sense--seeing time is running short, maybe--decides to pipe up again. _Take the north fork and get out of this weather._ No matter how uncomfortable it might be, three days with Takashi was nowhere near as bad as other things he's endured. And he'd lived through that, hadn't he?

Given two or three days, they could talk. They could fix this.

_Please_ , Takashi had said. Dark head bowed, hanging onto the edge of his desk for dear life. But he didn't say anything after that.

 

Maybe he thought Arai was angry, but he wasn't. There was this thing like a snow shovel in his chest, scraping against bone, that was all. He wasn't angry. He was just--

\--steering straight out of the curve, into a swirling whiteout and wind slamming the truck sidelong. He sucks in a gasp, taps the brakes, arms rigid. Drifting sideways into a skid, brain shocked silent as every nerve screams ICE FUCKING ICE!!!

The snowbank looms in the headlights, the right shoulder coming at him too fast. No traction, when he jams his foot down on the brake, and he yanks the wheel left, feels the truck's steel frame shuddering as the tires catch, slip, the back end fishtailing right. 

He thinks a last dizzy, panicked prayer, _bumper, don't dent the side please don't dent--_ , with the tires grinding across packed snow and gravel, and the truck finally rocking to a hard, tilting halt off the shoulder.

**

Shaking. He's shaking so hard his teeth are rattling. Hands fused to the steering wheel, muscles gone to water. Guts and lungs a solid knot, and his heart thumping painfully.

The roaring in his ears fades. The engine is still rumbling. His breath staggers in and out. 

Snow spins across the hood in speckled sheets, twisting crazily in the headlights. He turns his neck, stiff and cautious. Sees the steel post of the road sign, a hand's breadth off the driver's side window. His breath cracks on a sob; that was close. That was too damned close.

He pries one hand off the wheel, and rubs his mouth, his jaw. His toes are aching; foot still mashed to the brake. He fumbles the shifter into Park, and then collapses back against the seat.

"Really sick of snow," he says hoarsely.

**


	3. Oversight/Stranded

Oversight

The problem with installing a heating system in an historically seamless addition to a hundred-year-old house, was having to rip into the structure to do it. Mori learned this at the end of a warm July afternoon, following a lengthy inspection by his residential contractor.

The man had gone to some lengths to express his appreciation for the construction of the house, praising the use of techniques and materials no one employed anymore. He pointed out how the floor of the residence wing matched the main corridor exactly, even though it was built some seventy years later. 

"Not that I like talking myself out of work," the man said. "But it would be a crime to destroy this kind of craftsmanship." He explained that since there was no attic over the residence wing, they'd have to go into the crawlspace beneath the floors, to install all the fitting and ducts. The space would need ventilation, to avoid carbon monoxide buildup, which meant tearing into the base of the outer walls. Then they'd have to dismantle the floors in each room to mount the ducting, and then cut into the wood, to fit the vents.

The contractor delivered this news with all the gravity of a surgeon describing a patient's prognosis for an invasive procedure, as Mori gazed on the flawless expanse of antique timber, each plank meticulously planed and fitted, quite possibly under his great-grandfather's stern scrutiny.

"Space heaters," he sighed.

"I have a line on a good model," the contractor offered. "Quiet, very efficient, and they allow for custom enclosures to match the interior decor. I can bring some catalogues--"  
"I'd like six."

The man paused. "And the enclosures?"  
"Yes."

Catalogues, Mori had learned the hard way, when the pool pump self-destructed, were a notorious waste of time. There was a point where too many choices impeded decision making, and he had quite enough decisions to make every day as it was.

"If you didn't mind replacing the windows, you could improve insulation that way." The contractor jotted down notes on his legal pad, checking items against the inspector's report. "I work with a glazier who does custom residential orders, very reliable...."

Mori listened, and filed the information away as he ought, but there was this feeling nagging in the back of his mind. He mistook it for tedium, first, or perhaps several late nights in a row catching up to him. Maybe he should stop by the kitchen for some tea, once the contractor left.

But then as they walked through the guest suites, with the contractor admiring the ceiling joists, offering advice for the squeaky outdoor shutters, the sensation solidified into a vague anxiousness. Mori surreptitiously patted his pocket for his mobile, and it was right there. But something was off. There was something he was missing.

**

By the time he saw the contractor out the front door, the sun was setting, deep red and orange behind the mountains, and the front drive was framed in lavender-colored shadows; cool scent of cut grass, and insect sounds wafting by. The day was drawing to a rare peaceful close, and yet he couldn't shake this elusive prickle of things left undone.

It trailed him back through the house, into the library. All in order, there. Down the hall, to the telephone alcove, where the mail and his house keys occasionally turned up. But no, that wasn't it, either.

Heading back to his father's study (ostensibly it was his study now, but all Mori's life it had been his father's domain, strictly private, and Mori found it hard to think of it any other way), he dropped his clipboard on the desk, and settled in the big leather office chair. Okay, he needed to think.

It was too late to make any business calls. There were no new messages on his desk. He studied the paper desk calendar Masao Hardware had sent over, but nothing jumped out at him. He was supposed to order a bulk rubbish container for the next orchard trimming. But he'd already noted that on his calendar for tomorrow.

He leaned back in his chair, and rubbed his eyes, sighing. He was worn out. He was so used to running non-stop that his mind was trying to invent more tasks for him. Maybe he should try to turn in early, for a change.

( _Late, late, late, don't forget, you'll regret it_ )

He turned and gazed out the study window to the courtyard, the indigo evening sky above the wall, the first glittering stars, the glass lanterns along the wall glowing like candles in the soft dusk. He yawned behind his hand, and drifted a bit. A short doze might not hurt. Just a quick catnap, here in his chair. Then he could get up and make his nightly rounds, check the locks on the pool--.

Oh. He bolted upright, eyes wide, his desk chair making an outraged squeak as he tipped it half-off its casters. Oh _hell_ , he'd completely forgotten.

**

When you come into the dojo, his Sensei had once told Mori, you come all the way in. Leave the outside world outside, and bring your whole self to your discipline. Don't give half yourself to practice, and half to other problems. It makes a poor job of both.

When the time had come for Mori to trade his wooden practice swords for steel, that rule particularly hit home. To draw a katana from its sheath in an eyeblink required a focus as sharp as the blade itself, when the least error in form could cleave the sheath and his hand before he even felt the cut. 

So it became ingrained in him, to leave aside every other concern when he stepped through the door of the dojo. If there was a day he had trouble gathering his focus, he swept the porch first, clearing his mind of everything but his center, his discipline. Even in the dazed darkness of the year before, when he'd wandered through the fields, the rooms of the summer house, the same gray day over and over, he had still managed to find a certain clarity and balance under the low timber ceiling of the pool house.

Tonight, hurriedly kicking his shoes off at the doorway, Mori knew he was not at all in the right frame of mind to enter. If there'd been time, if he wasn't so late already, he'd probably be going for the broom, to help sweep together the tattered threads of his concentration. But at the very least, whether he could be of any use in here or not, he owed Arai an apology. So he took a few calming breaths, and quietly edged over the threshold.

And then for moment, he didn't dare move.

Arai knelt in the center of the practice floor, on his left knee, right foot planted before him, extending his right arm until his wrist and elbow were perfectly level with his shoulder. His movement was slow, exacting, and the geometry of his body--textbook perfect for that position of the kata--reflected absolute focus. 

Perhaps his own timing was all off, but Mori could hardly stop the purely aesthetic pleasure that stole over him, watching the young man on the practice mat, strong and centered. This was what all those months of painstaking work had been for. So that Arai could kneel, and stand, and move without fear that his body would betray him. Mori had known this assurance was possible, he knew Arai had this strength in him. All he had needed was help finding his balance.

And now, seeing it before him, Mori had to wonder how he could possibly have been consumed by anything else.

He entered the room properly then, shuffling his feet to give warning. Arai turned at the sound, and straightaway Mori bowed in apology.

"I'm very sorry for my tardiness." And then to his mortification he skirted the truth, without forethought. "I lost track of time with the contractor, inside." 

It wasn't that forgetting their session altogether reflected poorly on him, he thought later. Though it certainly did. It was more that, in that instant, he could not bear for Arai to think he'd been overlooked. For all his cheerful and forgiving disposition, Arai could be easily wounded. And when he was, he took the hurt inwardly, and never mentioned it. Which made hurting him in the first place an unforgivable sin, in Mori's view.

Arai smiled then, broad and warm, and something in Mori's heart twisted. "Hey, you made it out. Good to see you."

 

Their date hadn't been on his clipboard, or the desk calendar, like every other appointment he had. But the idea that he should have to write something like this down to remember it bothered him deeply. Arai was not an obligation. Time with him shouldn't be treated like an appointment. 

Their busy schedules had kept them from meeting near as often as they used to, but every time they found the opportunity, Arai's smile lit, and his simple happiness was tangible from across the room. It didn't matter if it had only been a day or a whole week; Arai was unfailingly glad to see him, and the feeling was entirely mutual. Every time Mori saw that smile, he was reminded of the very first time it had captivated him, and how? How could he possibly have forgotten this?

"I'm sorry," Mori repeated, not knowing what else to say. "You don't have to leave soon, do you?"

"Oh--." Arai glanced past him, out the window. "It's dark already? What time is it?"  
"A little after seven."

"Ah." He frowned slightly, and rubbed the back of his neck. "Told my uncle I'd be back around eight. But I can call. I don't think he needs me around for anything."

Mori nodded. "Your form has improved, quite a bit. I can see you've been working on it."  
"You think?" Arai gave a shyly pleased smile. "I'm still kinda wobbly, getting up for the next part..."

Mori came around and knelt next to him on the mat, listening, and wishing things could slow down now, wishing there was some way he could turn the clock back on the day, and enjoy this as long as possible. Wishing he weren't fighting back a yawn with all his strength.

"Something wrong?" Arai asked, tilting a curious look at him. And Mori wished he hadn't come in so preoccupied, to begin with.

"It's fine." He shook his head, rifled through his scattered weariness for one thread of focus.  
"Y'know if you're tired, we could just--."

"No, I'm all right." If Arai could manage this after his own long workday, then surely Mori could pull himself together for another hour. They had so few hours together anymore, after all. "Show me, what you've been working on. I'd like to see."

**

 

Stranded

 

Well. At least he hadn't driven into a ditch.

"Shit." Arai's laugh sounds weird and shaky to his own ears. "Now what do I do?" 

Once he'd caught his breath, he tried straightening the wheel. He eased the shifter back into First, and touched the gas cautiously. The tires caught, rolled forward. It felt like both rear tires were still on pavement. He listened to the tick of his blinkers and the rumbling engine, unable to make a decision. It would be stupid to try and get back on the road if he couldn't see it. But what if somebody came up behind him? He should get off the road altogether. But with this snow, if he got stuck....

"Shit." No good going forward if he can't see. All he can do is wait, and smart money says he should wait off the road. The storm could blow over any minute, and maybe the snow won't be too deep.

Some minutes later, he turns off the engine, and the heater and wipers. No sense wasting gas or the battery. He tugs on his gloves, zips his jacket up to his chin, and scoots over to the passenger's side, to rummage in the glove box. The wind groaning ominously around the truck is really creeping him out.

He digs out a heavy duty flashlight, a ballpoint pen, an old, much-creased map of the Karuizawa region, a square metal cigarette lighter, an ice scraper, and an ancient peppermint wrapped in gooey cellophane. He leaves the ice scraper on the dashboard, and takes up the flashlight. Checks the batteries, and then worms himself down to the floorboard, to check under the seat.

"Bingo," he grunts. The first-aid kit is lodged under the driver's seat, and next to it is the yellow box of emergency flares. He reaches under and tugs it free, dislodging the parts of a compact shovel; three aluminum bars, threaded to screw together, and a good-sized shovel head. Assuming he doesn't get completely buried, he could probably dig the tires free.

He plays the flashlight up across the windshield, and finds it entirely blanketed in white now. 

"No way," he mutters. He reaches up and switches on the accessory power, and then flicks the wiper switch. The wipers skid and squeak, but they clear two triangular patches off the glass, revealing the spiraling veil of white outside.

A twinge of claustrophobia goes through him, and he hauls in a deep breath to keep calm. This is probably the worst of the storm hitting right now. Chances are, he'll been seeing the tail end of it in the next half-hour or so. And if it takes longer....well, he might as well deal with that later. Save his energy and his worrying for when he can do something about it.

**


	4. Hush/Stumble/Fault

Hush

 

Mori's dreams had begun gathering in late summer, a slow-building storm cloud that loomed as autumn came on, dragging unsettled shadows through his waking thoughts.

It was always twilight in those dreams. Always that still quiet moment before night. Up at the tea house, Arai soaking his head under the well pump. On his knees with water turning his shirt translucent. Hair slicked dark and dripping, looking up at Mori with the last light of the sun catching his eyes. It was not a look Mori had ever seen when he was awake.

At the furthest end of the plum orchard, blossoms spun down from the branches, filling the rows between the trees. They were ankle-deep in the irrigation canal, moving the quarry stones into place, one by one. Shirts tossed up the bank, bare feet, and water swirling and rippling without sound. Mori settled a stone into place, then sat on the bank to rest his back. Arai slid his wet palms down Mori's bare arms, to his thighs. He knelt in the running water, gazing up.

These things never happened. Not the way he dreamt them.

Down at the pool's edge, he leaned back on his elbows, watching Arai climb from the water. Clouds sat motionless overhead, the color of lilacs, hydrangeas, hibiscus. A lone cricket chirped off in the high hedge, and the air was muggy, close against his skin.

 _We have a little time before it gets dark._ This was the first dream where Arai had spoken. Water trickled in tiny rivers, tributaries, down his bare chest. He leaned over, dripping on Mori's arm.

"Then you'll have to leave," Mori sighed, regretting it already.  
 _It's a long way back in the dark_ , Arai agreed. His hand was cool and damp on Mori's forehead, his cheek. _But don't think about that now._

"We shouldn't. If you go--."  
 _Hush_. He leaned in, hiding a secret in his smile, and the whole world stilled on their kiss.  
Those cool hands moved down Mori's ribs, his hips, seeking the places he was feverish and sensitive. He'd never felt any touch but his own, there.

The pool reflected the endless sunset, painting Arai's skin in faint wavelets of light, gold and peach and crimson.  
"Beautiful," Mori told him. Arai gripped his shoulders for balance, and his weight in Mori's lap was maddening, unbearable, and then he _moved_ \--.

**

No matter the outcome of these dreams, Mori always woke up alone. Heart thumping with something too like fear, sheets knotted in his fists. Hours past sunset, in the darkness of his own room.

**

Stumble

Once they reached the cabin, Yasu had warned him to be careful. "Generator's shut off for the night, so we'll have to use a flashlight. You good with that?"

"Sure," said Arai, peering into the musty dimness. He saw the sawhorses, plastic sheeting bunched on the floor, and sheets of plywood tipped against the wall.  
"Okay, watch your step. We haven't finished the flooring in here, yet."

In the back of the cabin, there was a missing window, which Yasu had forgotten to cover with plywood before his work crew were dismissed for the weekend. By the time he'd remembered, his guys were already in the caretaker's lodge, enjoying the Friday night beer Arai had delivered from town, having showers, and making phone calls.

It wouldn't take five minutes, Yasu had said, and Arai said he didn't mind helping out. It wasn't one of the smarter offers he'd made, but it really hadn't seemed like a big deal at the time.

With the flashlight aimed from the floor, Arai held the wood in place while Yasu screwed it in with his battery drill. The drill was running low, so he decided to grab the charger from the tool room, and bring it to the caretaker's cabin overnight.

The tool room was totally dark, so Arai held the flashlight while Yasu fished out the charger cord from behind the tool chest. "Ah shit, I can't get my arm in here. You mind giving me a quick hand with this tool chest, kid?"

"No problem." But then three steps forward, Arai stumbled on something in the dark. His hand shot out by reflex--all those times getting dumped on the floor by his bad knee--grabbing for something to break his fall. 

The flashlight dropped. Yasu was yelling, "Hey! Don't grab the--!" Just as the heavy plank under Arai's hand dipped and came whizzing up at his head, connecting with a thump like a mallet on a watermelon. The floor jumped up and punched the air out of him--

and then dark.

**

He woke up to the taste of blood in his mouth, and a ringing buzz in his left ear.

"Shit, kid. You okay? Shit, shit." White light stabbed his eyes, and he groaned. It was the flashlight, Yasu checking him over.

 _Knee doesn't hurt_ , he thought dumbly. _Can't be too bad, then_.

"C'mon man, talk to me." Yasu sounded panicky, and Arai blinked, managed to flap his hand, to show he was conscious.

The daze cleared gradually, leaving him aware of the thundering ache in his face, like somebody set off a bomb on it. But that seemed to be the worst of it. His knee felt fine. _Hey, if there's one thing I'm good at_ , he wanted to tell Yasu, _it's falling down_. But the fat throb in his jaw limited him to mumbling, "M'good. S'alright."

"Hell, you sure?" The flashlight blinded him again, and he heard Yasu whistle. "You ain't lookin' so good right now. Damn, I shoulda warned you about that plank on the saw table. Sorry, man." Yasu gripped his shoulder, "Here, see if you can sit up."

Arai got as far up as his elbows, and then his eyeballs, and the whole left side of his head throbbed so hard he wanted to gag. He caught his breath, and then curled up the rest of the way, slowly.  
"Man, I thought you pulled the saw down on you. Just about shit my pants."

He wanted to spit out the blood in his mouth, but for some reason it seemed like a bad idea. He carefully put his fingers to his jaw, which felt like it was hanging twice the normal size off his head. Attached by some wood screws, maybe. But his teeth all seemed to be intact, when he poked them with his tongue.

Yasu came at him with the flashlight again, to check his pupils. He made Arai count the fingers he held up, which Arai could do, and follow the fingers with his eyes. Once Yasu was satisfied he didn't have a concussion, and his brains weren't scrambled, he said, "Your face looks like hell. We better get some ice on that, quick."

Great. Ice. Arai would've rolled his eyes, if they weren't pulsing like they might come out, any second.

**

Yasu badgered the keys off him, and drove him back to town in the grocery truck, ignoring Arai's dire muttering over _'nsurance_ , though at least Arai won the argument that no, he didn't need the hospital. It was a long, tense ride and the ice pack on his swelling, aching face wasn't helping much. But the real trouble was still to come.

When they first walked in, his uncle did a startled double-take over the register. Then after figuring out--between Arai's mumbling, and Yasu's explanations--that Arai was basically okay, he hadn't been in a car wreck, or beaten up by thugs, he took Arai upstairs for another ice pack and some aspirin, and then returned down to the store to "...talk with Ieyasu-san in private."

They were gone quite a while, and then Uncle returned alone, having left Yasu to his fate with his boss, Masao-san, next door.

He made some tea for both of them, and then sat down with Arai and delivered a quiet, rational, fearsome lecture about caution and responsibility, and where was the safety helmet Masao-san had given Arai to wear on construction deliveries, anyway. Lastly (and worst of all), he asked Arai to please tell him he hadn't been drinking with those guys.

Because it was an accident on a construction site, his uncle said, it would have to be reported. That was the law. And since Ieyasu-san was foreman, he would have to take responsibility. 

Arai had only thought he felt bad before hearing that. Basically, what his uncle was saying, was that Yasu and the rest of the crew could lose their jobs over this. Because Arai had been careless.

It was pretty damn unfair, having to defend the situation when he could barely talk. He tried to explain that he'd volunteered to help. He'd walked right past the truck, and didn't even think about the safety helmet. And then in the dark tool room, he'd had the flashlight but forgot to watch his feet like Yasu said.

"If things had turned out worse," his uncle argued. "If you'd broken your leg, or your neck, if something happened that you couldn't work for me, Ieyasu-san would be responsible for that too."

"I was just holding a flashlight," Arai said. "I tripped. Yasu didn't do anything."  
"And where were the rest of the guys on Masao-san's payroll? How come he didn't get one of them?"

"He. Um." It seemed like a trick question. A test. And Arai squirmed, thinking if he said something that contradicted Yasu's version, it would end up looking a lot worse. "I just did him a favor. That's all."

He realized as soon as he said it, that his uncle knew better. Yasu had told the truth, and Arai had just covered for him. His uncle knew.

The weird thing, was that he didn't seem angry. Or even surprised. He just shook his head, wearing this sad, sympathetic look that made Arai feel sick and sorry and small inside.

"I know how much you want to help people, kid. I know you try hard to get along with folks. But the tough thing about growing up, is sometimes you have to be up-front, even if somebody won't like you for it. It saves a lot of trouble for everybody in the long run, trust me on that."

Arai didn't think anything he would say then, would come out right. So he just stared at his knees, with a swelling ache in his throat, to match his jaw.

"Let's say you take a couple days off, huh? Get some rest, and we'll get this thing sorted out. It's not the end of the world. Just an accident."

"Didn't mean to make trouble," Arai managed. "m'sorry."

"I know, kid." His uncle squeezed his shoulder with a warm hand, and then let go.

 

**

 

Fault

It had been a couple nights after the accident that wrecked Arai's knee, that his high school soccer coach called to talk to his dad. Luckily (or not, depending how you looked at it), his dad seldom came home from the bar before nine or ten, so Coach talked to Arai's mom instead.

The officials in the match had called a foul, when the other team's player had knocked Arai down. And maybe because the injury was severe, the coaches and officials were taking a close look at the incident, with an eye to penalizing the other player. This was why Coach had called, but when his mom came in later to explain it, Arai was pretty loopy from pain medication, so he doesn't quite remember all the details.

He does remember telling her that no, of course it wasn't the other guy's fault. No, he didn't do it on purpose. It was near the end of the game, his own stamina was practically gone, he was just about staggering as it was. He remembers thinking that no way would he bring somebody else down over this. That was just making excuses and bad sportsmanship, besides. The other player had every right to go on playing.

He remembers mom looking at him, quiet for a long time. "And if you can't play anymore?" she'd asked.  
"It's not that guy's fault," he said. "Getting him in trouble doesn't fix anything."

He remembers her hand on his forehead, cool and soft, like when he was a little kid. "Naoki-kun. You're a good boy." 

"You're gonna tell dad, huh."  
"Your coach called for him. It's right to tell him."

"I'm really tired now. I think I just want to sleep," was all he could say in response.

Dad's reaction was predictable. He was furious, for days.

"This is how you're going to be your whole life? You'll just let people take advantage of you like this?" It took all of Mom's persuasion--and she caught hell for it, make no mistake--to keep him from calling Coach back, demanding a penalty on the whole team for what had happened, or worse, calling a lawyer.

"What the hell is wrong with you, just laying there? I'm not raising a son to be somebody else's punching bag. You let them kick you around now, people are going to think they can do it all the time. Until you fight back, and show them they can't."

It went on and on. And the worst of it, was that his dad never even cared about soccer. Never came to a game. Never paid attention to the schedule, or the season. Wasn't even particularly concerned when Arai had been injured. That is, until it sunk in that Arai's best chance at a university scholarship had been lost. That whole discussion was a disaster as well, every time it came up.

But the main thing, the one issue Dad always came back to, when he got a good head of steam up, was blame. It was like Arai had somehow defied him personally, in refusing to do the one thing Dad himself would've done right off the bat: blame the other guy first.

**

By the time he reached high school, Arai had promised himself that he wouldn't grow up anything like his dad. He wouldn't think like him, or treat people the way his dad did. It went without saying that he never, never wanted to touch a drop of alcohol.

He also never wanted to believe the stuff his dad said about him, usually when he was drunk off his ass and mad at everything. But that was harder, for some reason. Dad could've been right, about him not having any future. Everybody knew it was hard to get a decent steady job without a college degree. And maybe always trying to see the better side of people did make Arai a loser, but it was also something his dad would never do, so he chose to keep it up.

He'd asked his mom once, helping her clear the broken dishes and food off the floor, after a certain dinner explosion, "Why do you stay here?"

She'd pressed her lips together hard, and for a second he'd thought she was really going to scold him.

"That's not a very nice question," she finally said. Like he'd spoken out of turn, in public. Except that this wasn't public. There wasn't any place to hide, here by the overturned dinner table, with rice scattered across the tatami, and the responsible party passed out cold in the next room.

"This isn't very nice either," he'd answered.

"Your father is my responsibility. What kind of person would I be, if I left him? What kind of example is that?" Arai might've come back with an answer for that too, but then she said something that shocked him a little, made him think for a long time after.

"He wouldn't make it, if he were left alone. There isn't anyone else, who would help him."

That was when Arai promised himself two more things. First, he would never let another person give up their happiness, out of responsibility to him. And secondly, that if anyone else ever had to take care of him for some reason, he would make damn sure he'd deserved it, every single day.

**


	5. Withheld/Solitary

Withheld

It was 8am and Mori was on his fifth phone call of the day. He'd been trying to get a second cup of coffee since six, but the phone wouldn't stop ringing. Four calls about the aqueduct construction, and one from the contractor handling the pool house repairs. The new pool pump had just arrived, they could deliver it first thing Wednesday; what time would be convenient?

Mori entered the kitchen with his phone tucked under his ear, coffee cup cradled in his elbow, flipping through his appointment calendar. The quarry drillers were due Wednesday at eight, the flatbed hauler showed up at ten, Arai was in the pantry, ducking behind Sakura-san.

Wait.

He blinked at his tiny, elderly housekeeper, standing with her hands straight and prim down her apron. He blinked at the dark navy ball cap bobbing over her left shoulder. "I'm sorry, can I call you later with a time?" he said, and snapped the phone shut without waiting for an answer. 

Sakura-san's expression was entirely too stoic for his comfort. It was that face she wore when his father had called, or when Mori came in long after dark from the orchards, too exhausted to even think about dinner.

"Bocchama." She bowed slightly, and the ball cap ducked lower to compensate. "Is there anything you need?"

"Coffee," he answered after a bit, having no idea what else to say, and half-curious whether she was actually making any effort to conceal Arai, or if he simply chose her as the nearest available place to hide. After sixty-five years of loyal service to his family, he seriously doubted it was the former, but still.

"Of course, Bocchama," she answered, coming to take his cup without an instant's hesitation, and shuffling off toward the sink, leaving a clear line of sight between him and Arai, edging backwards and fussing with his work gloves, while keeping a strangely avid eye on the pantry baseboards.

Still hiding, Mori thought.

"Is everything okay?" he asked, because that was safe enough, with his housekeeper across the kitchen, washing out the coffeepot. Safer than _'where have you been all week?'_ and _'why are you hiding in my pantry?'_ anyway. The ball cap tilted up enough for Mori to catch the tight edge of a forced smile.

"Yeah, it's fine. Sorry, I'm just running behind today. Got a slow start, and all these deliveries." He was fumbling with the gloves still, and Mori read the truth in his nervous, distracted hands.  
_Things are not okay,_ they were telling him. _And I'd rather be boiled in oil than talk about it._

"Naoki," he said, very softly, and the young man jerked up short, by pure reflex. Mori, watching closely, caught a glimpse of startled eyes, and....

And dear God.

His mobile clattered against the floor, calendar flapping down after, as Mori was hooked through the center of his chest and yanked to the pantry. Arai was backpedaling against the door, warding him off, still trying to keep his bruised face ducked under his cap brim, saying 'It's fine', and 'You don't have to get worked up', and whatever else Mori didn't hear because his heart was thumping against his eardrums and all he could think was _all week, you've been hiding for a week and I didn't know. I should've known this, that something happened to you again._

Arai crowded himself back against the corner shelves, gave up his protests, and let Mori tug his cap up to see the damage, with a fatalistic sort of surrender. He didn't look up from the floor, but that wasn't the greatest of Mori's concerns at the moment.

The bruising had faded to ugly greens and yellows, and years of contact sparring told Mori this was a nasty shiner several days ago. All down the left side of Arai's face, from his temple almost to his jaw; it would have been swollen and puffed, he would hardly have been able to talk. 

"How did this happen?" Mori asked, and of course what he meant was, _how did I let this happen? What was I doing that I wasn't there to stop this?_

"Just a dumb accident," Arai muttered to the floor. "I was on a delivery, and just. Kinda stumbled into something."

Mori chose to take that metaphorically, because otherwise it was a patent untruth. Unless he stumbled into a baseball bat, because only something striking with enough force to knock him over--possibly unconscious--would've left marks like that.

 

"Who--," Mori began, wondering who else had been there, if they'd given him proper care, but at that one word Arai flinched; a twitch of his shoulder under Mori's hand, and in his eyes a flicker of....guilt? And Mori found himself unable to finish the question.

Somewhere off behind him, his mobile made its locust-rattle against the kitchen floor. He closed his eyes and sighed, prayed for patience. And in that moment, Arai slipped from his hands.

"I tripped and fell," he said, straightening his ball cap on his head. "It was--I was just clumsy. It was stupid."

Watching Arai tuck himself back into hiding, Mori was oddly reminded of another conversation, a year ago.  
_"...it's nothing! Could you please leave it?"_ At the time, Arai had lain fallen on the gravel when his knee had collapsed, halfway down the hill from the tea house. Angry and ashamed, and tensed all over with pain. Mori had practically had to plead with him, to allow him to help.

And now Arai walked without a limp, he climbed hills without any worry, and even jogged. But somehow he felt they'd come back to the edge of that same impasse. For some reason, he was certain that if he pressed, he would be told to leave it. And this time, Arai could walk away.

Mori's arms ached for something to hold. His phone clattered again. If he had just ten minutes of peace, maybe he could make sense of at least one thing. "Can I do anything for you?"

Arai stilled with his head down, and one glove on. "You know your phone is vibrating like crazy over there."  
"It doesn't matter."

"I know how you worry about things. And you're really busy right now. I don't, I mean, you shouldn't worry over me."

Mori understood the spirit of the gesture. He knew the lengths Arai would go to, to stay unobtrusive and avoid inconveniencing anyone. It still stung, though. As if any of the thousand nagging tasks he pursued daily--until it sometimes felt he was chasing himself in circles--could even remotely compare in importance to Arai's well-being. His happiness.

Was he happy lately? Mori had a hard time pinning down the last time he was certain of that, and that's when he realized something.  
_I miss you. What have I been doing without you?_

The answer was that he'd been working, feverishly trying to keep up with a flood of responsibility, so many new tasks and problems he'd never expected, every day. It was exhausting, and it was lonely, but this year was his test. The only chance his father would give him, to prove that he could run this estate. That it was worth everything Mori had walked away from.

But was it worth it, if he gave up his closest, dearest friendship in the bargain?

"Do you want to stay for coffee?" he asked abruptly. Refusing to think about the crew of men working down at the pool house, finishing the repairs to the rear wall. They had time for a cup of coffee, here in the kitchen. Like they used to do last winter, once it got too cold to walk the fields. He missed that, too.

He saw Arai waver briefly; the ball cap tilted up, revealing the faint edge of a smile. Wistful.  
"Ah. Wish I could. But I really am running behind. Sorry," he sighed.

"Another time, then." 

But how many times had they ended conversations with that promise, over the past few months, Mori thought? Too many.

"Yeah. I'll call you."

**

To be fair, he did call. When Mori was out at the quarry, unloading all the heavy granite blocks he and his laborers had spent the morning stacking up, so that the cracked axle on the flatbed hauler could be repaired. It was not a good day, but it was very long. And Sakura-san was still employing the subtle tactic of withholding his non-emergency phone messages until he'd eaten dinner at least, so with one thing and another, it was late the next afternoon before he could return the call. By which time Arai was out.

What happened, Mori would later reflect, when he was at leisure to repent for many things, was that it all got pushed to the back of his mind, where it simmered. This vague, nagging sense of something amiss. Something left unfinished. It wasn't that he forgot the incident, or the sight of Arai ducking to hide those ugly bruises. But he did forget to resolve it. He forgot to seek a way to repair the awkward, fractured communication between them that day.

Most importantly, he forgot to tell Arai that it was all right. That he had nothing to be ashamed of, and nothing so terrible he needed to hide it from Mori. Perhaps because (and of everything, he is least proud of this) Mori forgot to be convinced of it, himself.

He simmered, he worried, he doubted, and he kept it all tucked away in the back of his thoughts. In the small, shadowy corners of his heart.

And so the season passed.

**

Solitary

Arai thinks that the next time he's packing up the truck's emergency kit, he's going to throw in a cheap paperback and one of those clip-on book lights from Masao Hardware. And some candy bars, too. He's starving.

He's got that achy ice-block feeling in his feet, stuck too long in his work boots, and his nose and cheeks are feeling the nippy air in the truck cab now. Earlier, he'd let the truck idle for a few minutes, to try and get some heat from the vents, but it was lukewarm air, at best. Seems the heater doesn't really warm up unless the truck is moving. And he's trying not to dwell on what that might mean for the rest of the night.

_Stupid, stupid, I am the stupidest person ever born._ In the absence of anything else to do, he's been working out the main points of the groveling apology he owes his uncle. Who has most likely been frantic for an hour, at least. It starts with, "I'm an idiot, and a gigantic troublemaker, I'm so sorry, " and carries on from there. _I'm sorry I made you worry, I'm sorry I recklessly drove the grocery truck into a blizzard, and skidded off the road. I'm sorry I was too wrapped up in my little pity party to notice half the road was covered in ice._

His uncle would've called the lake cabins looking for him, so he'll have to apologize to those guys too. And Sakura-san, who most likely got the next call. Damn. Takashi would be climbing the walls by now. As if Arai didn't already owe a pile of apologies, right there.

At some point over the last hour, Arai realizes he's started getting philosophical. He's been thinking about all his problems before the truck ran off the road, and how those are pretty small potatoes compared to what he's facing now. 

There's this Mylar bag he found in the emergency kit; you're supposed to unfold it and climb into it, when you're stuck in freezing conditions and trying to avoid hypothermia and frost bite. Eventually, Arai is aware that he's probably going to get that bag out, drag his boots off and curl up in it. He is probably not, as he'd earlier hoped, going to hop out of the truck with that shovel and dig the tires out of the snow. Getting his boots and legs wet would be suicide, if he ends up stuck again, half a kilometer down the road. And the way this snow has been going on and on, he will definitely end up stuck.

He doesn't want to get the bag out just yet, though. Because once he does, he'll have to face the likelihood that he'll be in it for a good long while. Overnight, through half of tomorrow, probably. Whenever the snow plows or Mountain Rescue can reach him. Maybe it's stupid, but he feels like getting in the hypothermia bag means he's waiting for the end to happen. Facing that he is in serious trouble. And he's not quite ready for that yet.

Instead, he's concentrating on this deep dread building up in him, like when he was a kid, and he'd been such a pain in the ass to his mom that she finally shook her finger at him. _Just wait until your father gets home._ Which always meant Arai spent the rest of the day in a state of queasy fear. Knowing dad would come home and find the crayon on the wall (or the sink full of toothpaste, or Arai himself with a bald spot on the side of his head after that chewing gum incident), and he'd completely blow his cork. Yelling with that purple throbbing vein in his forehead, until the neighbors banged in the wall. Which they did pretty often, actually.

But his uncle isn't like his dad, and what Arai really dreads in this case (ignoring the threats of frostbite, hypothermia, and starvation), is that he won't yell. He'll shake his head, and frown, and maybe say something like, _"I expected better from you, kid. I thought I could trust you to handle responsibility."_ And then remembering that whole mess with Masao-san's construction crew (what Arai secretly thinks of as the 'Plank-to-the-face Lesson'), his uncle will decide that after two strikes of serious, appalling stupidity, clearly Arai isn't so trustworthy after all.

And just maybe, Arai thinks, slumping further down the bench seat, until the passenger door handle digs into his back, his uncle would be right. Takashi hadn't chosen to trust him, after all, and his uncle could well decide he couldn't, either.

If that happens, Arai knows he's lost. Completely screwed. Where can he go, if the last of his family gives up on him? How will he get by with just a high school diploma, and two years' experience as a grocery delivery boy (an irresponsible one, at that)?

_I'll scrub out the dumpster every day. I'll rebuild the storeroom shelves with my own money. I'll do all the cooking and chores, and never spend one more second feeling sorry for myself. You don't even have to pay me, just don't give up on me, please. It's the only thing I'll ever ask._

He has no problem with groveling. It's just whether that will be enough to save him. Because he's damn short on options, otherwise.

 

**


	6. Rainfall/Solstice

Rainfall

If he thinks about where it stopped making sense, where he started holding things back from Takashi and thinking twice before he spoke (and yeah, he admits he's hidden some stuff, but it's only because he's trying to hang on, trying not to screw up, and he feels this tenuous breakable thing between them sometimes, which never used to be there).

In short, when Arai started worrying about being more careful. It all goes back to this one day.

He remembers the gray chilly rain falling day and night, and the way the great oaks and old stone of the Morinozuka estate peeked and hid in the autumn fog. He remembers what Sakura-san said on the way to the library ( _"Bocchama has been fatigued, lately..."_ ), and the worry shadowing her eyes. Arai remembers this strongly, he comes back to it over and over because in hindsight, it was a warning of sorts. He just didn't know it then. He thought she meant Takashi was working too hard again, that he was just tired, like he'd been for most of the summer.

He knew it the moment he saw Takashi, of course, that he was more than just tired. Maybe Sakura-san's etiquette didn't allow for terms like _delirious, exhausted, at the end of his rope_. But Arai had eyes. He could see.

But he should've paid closer attention. He should've taken better care.

It wasn't until after that day, that he realized how much he took Takashi's strength, his seemingly limitless fortitude, for granted. Takashi always stood straight, he always had the right answer, he always knew what to do, and at some point Arai had absorbed that as one of the unchanging facts of the universe. Takashi never, ever stumbled; this is what Arai believed, wholeheartedly.

But that day, Takashi did stumble. And Arai did too.

Arai managed to heft him up on his feet and steer him out of the library, where Takashi had been delivering a random, barely-coherent lecture on geography to Kuki-chan, with the aid of a huge antique globe. Both women gave Arai grateful looks on the way out; apparently Takashi had been like this for days, and they couldn't get anything done.

They shuffled together down the shadowy corridor of the residence wing, Takashi draped over Arai's shoulder because he could barely keep his feet, and Arai trying not to tread on Takashi's toes, or trip them both, heading around the corners. He was heavy, radiating heat under Arai's supporting arm, and Arai was convinced that if he could just get him to lie down, Takashi would go out like a light.

"I don't like waking up when it's raining." Takashi said that, and Arai pulled up short in the hall. Takashi turned this strange, half-smile on him that made Arai's heart thump like a fist against the walls of his chest, and that was when he knew.

Exhaustion, and the ghost of old heartbreak, that's what had done this to him. Arai would bet anything that Takashi hadn't slept since the rain started getting to him. Since his memories of last autumn, and the awful year before that, had come floating to the surface again.

 _He's got to sleep. If he doesn't rest, he's going to break and I can't watch that._ Maybe Arai had been too caught up in his own mounting worry at the time, and too caught up (the way he always was around Takashi) in the dazzling, heady nearness of him. Even pale and disconcertingly fragile, even with his eyes rubbed red and sore, Takashi was magnetic. Arai could never be in the same room with him, without wanting to be closer, wanting to touch him. He'd learned to manage it in the interest of good manners mostly, but it was always there, quietly tingling under his skin, humming in the back of his brain, this constant thirsty fascination.

"If I stay with you, could you try to rest?" Arai had asked, ready to bargain whatever he had to.

He got that smile again, distant and placid and quietly sad. "You'll have to leave."

Again, in retrospect, this is something Arai should've listened to. Taken to heart and thought about awhile. But he was distracted; he didn't realize what it might mean.

"I've got the whole day off," he promised. "I can stay as late as you want."

 

Takashi's bedroom was a cozy contrast from the chilly hall and the thin, watery light of the library. His futon was neatly made, and the floor lamps cast a soft yellow glow over the walls and tatami. Arai made some comment about how it was warmer in there, and Takashi nodded slowly.

"Space heaters," he agreed, before turning to Arai and suddenly kissing him.

At first there was nothing but blank white space where his thoughts had just been; Arai simply froze, totally blindsided. And then everything tilted, and Takashi was the one holding him up, and his kiss was this raw, wet, physical thing, involving teeth and not much air, and Takashi pushing against him like he wanted to enter Arai's skin, climb in there with him. Then one of them made this incredible sound--he thought it was Takashi, but he'd never heard a sound like that come out of Takashi. A low gasp of a moan that rippled through him, sending sparks down all his nerves.

He wasn't thinking about the rain or the library globe, or the sad worrisome shadows under Takashi's eyes, when they tumbled down on Takashi's bed, knocking their knees together. When Arai sprawled back on his elbows and Takashi loomed over him, one hand skating up Arai's bare ribs under his shirt, he wasn't thinking about what might've brought this on, or how they hadn't exactly ever gone this far before. His whole awareness was occupied by Takashi's mouth and hands ( _his bed, oh god we're kissing in his bed_ ), and the way they suddenly _fit_ together when their legs and hips lined up just right; it was so amazing, so perfect, so close to the best thing ever.

It wasn't until they broke apart to catch their breath, and their eyes opened and met (Takashi's red wet mouth, and the darkest unblinking stare Arai had ever seen); that was when he finally caught up a little.

"You look so tired." And yeah it was true, but honestly. For just one second, if Arai could've clubbed his conscience on the head with a shovel and dragged it off in a ditch somewhere, he absolutely would have. Because he wanted this, wherever it was leading; in all the largely unremarkable nineteen years of his life, he had never wanted anything so badly.

Takashi blinked slowly at him, and Arai was twisted between the desire to haul him down by a fistful of his black sweater, and the equally strong urge, like a pang of heartache, to brush Takashi's disheveled black hair off his forehead with gentle fingers, tuck a blanket over his shoulders, and watch him sleep.

But before he could do either, Takashi sagged forward, shoulders giving out, elbows buckling. With a heavy sigh, he slowly crumpled, all that exhausted weight finally giving way, like a suspension bridge collapsing into deep water. His head touched the sheet above Arai's shoulder, and just before his body surrendered to sleep, he murmured into Arai's ear. "Please don't go."

Arai lay there several seconds, a little stunned, desperately turned on, and entirely failing to grasp what just happened. Then he discovered he couldn't breathe because Takashi was passed out on top of him, a pile of warm dead weight collapsing his lungs, and he had to struggle free or else suffocate.

**

Arai knows better than to ask for more than he has, because life is uncertain and frequently unkind. With just a trip, just a slip of the foot, the smallest mistake, and you could lose everything. He'd learned that too well. So he's always been cautious, tries his best never to ask too much.

But when he was finally collecting his wits, propped up in Takashi's bed, with the rain pattering off the eaves outside and Takashi's deep sleeping breaths next to him, his first utterly selfish conclusion was that Takashi had been holding back with him. Just thinking about that kiss, and Takashi crawling up between his splayed knees, licking into his mouth, made Arai's pulse soar and his breath come short again, so he had to set the details aside. 

The point was, Takashi wanted the same things he wanted, but he'd never done anything about it until today. Maybe he'd decided not to hold back anymore. Maybe he was so delirious he didn't know what he was doing.

But what had made him wait? Arai pondered the question for a couple of hours, and in the end, only one answer made sense.

_You'll have to leave._

For some reason, Takashi didn't trust him. The thought should've hurt worse than it did, except that Arai suspected it wasn't really a conscious thing. He didn't think it was an issue of mistrust, or that he'd necessarily done anything wrong. But where they'd been headed just before--well, before Takashi fell over unconscious--was a serious step. Once you went there, there wasn't any going back, and they'd never so much as mentioned it before. Takashi might trust him in all sorts of other ways, but not so far as to share how much he really wanted from Arai, how far he wanted to go.

He was assuming a lot. He should've known that. He should've taken into account what three days of sleeplessness might do to a person's head. It probably would've saved a lot of trouble, later on.

But he didn't. Instead, he made this deal with himself. That if Takashi woke up with that intent and hungry look he'd had before he fell asleep, that would mean he trusted Arai now, that he'd really meant what he'd shown Arai in that kiss, and he wouldn't be holding back anymore. On the other hand, if he woke up with the same restraint as before; such careful deliberation, never pushing, never crossing a certain line, Arai would know Takashi still didn't trust. He still needed time, and Arai would just have to be patient.

Unfortunately, he didn't get to see how Takashi woke up, because he slept through the afternoon and evening, and when ten p.m. rolled around, Arai had to give up the vigil. The grocery had a big delivery coming before dawn, and a long day of re-stocking after that. 

He devoted a good ten minutes to trying to wake Takashi, just to tell him good night, but only succeeded in getting him to roll over. It didn't seem right to pester him any more after that. So he hunted down some paper and a pen, and left a note by Takashi's bedside, along with a glass of water, in case he woke up thirsty.

It wasn't until late the next morning, that he finally got his answer.

"I just found your note," Takashi told him over the phone, his voice still dry and scratchy-sounding from sleep. "I was poor company yesterday. My apologies."

Arai hoped he was just testing the waters, that maybe he didn't want to bring up what had happened first. So he said it was fine. He'd enjoyed himself. "I uh, I kinda liked your company, actually," he smiled. Thinking he might help out, by giving him a hint.

But it went nowhere. "Oh. Okay," Takashi said neutrally. Which had to mean he was too uncomfortable to even talk about yesterday. 

And yeah, that did kinda hurt. But if Takashi was that uncomfortable, it wouldn't help for Arai to be pushy about it. He'd just have to show him he could be patient, and that Takashi _could_ trust him, and maybe once Takashi was ready, they could try again.

**

Solstice

Mori had made a grave error in judgment, regarding Christmas. One he had no idea how to remedy, and he wasn't even sure what he would have done differently, given a second chance at it.

Hiding the invitation until the last minute was his first mistake, though he hadn't done it deliberately. He'd only been waiting until the right time, to admit the inevitable: that he'd be traveling to Tokyo alone, for Christmas and New Year's. 

The envelope had sat on his desk for the last week of November, a mocking reminder of his lack of good choices in the matter. He'd only moved it to the desk drawer to make room for his year-end report to the estate's maintenance fund accountants, and then his thoughts were filled with line-item reviews and costs of materials, and out of sight was out of mind for the next few weeks.

The next thing he knew, it was four days to Christmas, Arai was inviting him to the village festival, and Mori suddenly remembered he had travel arrangements to make. Had he managed a proper explanation at the time, things might've gone better. If he could've offered more than empty excuses about family obligation, perhaps he wouldn't still be carrying the image of Arai's disappointment, stinging beneath the cover of his determined optimism. 

It was shameful to hurt someone like that, and it was downright heinous when they forgave you as soon as you did it. Mori knew this. What he had so far failed to learn, was how to avoid it in circumstances concerning his family.

To say that Mitsukuni was not well pleased with him for showing up alone, would've been an understatement. 

Among family and guests, Mitsukuni had been lavish with his cheer and affection, very much his old self, and Mori had dared to hope he might escape censure. Though of course he should've known better. Once his mother's Christmas Eve party had finally wound down, and the pair of them had retired to Mori's suite to loosen their ties and visit privately, the gloves came off.

"I didn't think Arai-kun was someone you would hide, Takashi." Mitsukuni never shouted when he was truly furious. He simply aimed words as sharp and quiet as shinai, for maximum damage. 

Mori took it without flinching, because after three days, he still couldn't forget Arai's smile, wishing him a safe trip. The way that smile faded before it reached his eyes, though it was obvious he was trying hard, for Mori's sake. He always tried so hard, and asked so little, but those eyes were too honest to conceal either his hopes or his disappointments.

"It didn't seem appropriate this year," was Mori's first defense. Considering this was his first appearance at a family function in two years. Considering that he was still on uncertain footing with his father, and likely would be, until Satoshi was publicly acknowledged as the Morinozuka heir. 

He'd debated long and hard with himself, and in the end decided to avoid unnecessary risk. It seemed the correct choice at the time. Yet somehow, it failed to withstand the piercing scrutiny Mitsukuni had apparently perfected, since he'd confirmed his own place as the Haninozuka successor.

"Didn't you think he might feel left out?" Mitsukuni asked, and Mori thought that he could wish a swifter end to this holiday season all he wanted. His regrets would still continue to multiply.

"I was also concerned about the cousins," he said, referring to the extended family who always gathered at these events, jostling among themselves for favor with the Haninozuka and Morinozuka, like petitioners at the Imperial court. It was bad enough they'd been staring avidly at him all evening, from their huddled cliques, no doubt trading whatever scandals they'd invented to explain his prior absence. Not that he cared, but he'd as soon throw Arai into a pool of hungry sharks, as make him face that on a first visit.

 

Mitsukuni gave a soft, relenting sigh. "Takashi...."

"I got a printed invitation, by mail. I'm a guest here, now." Since he'd started voicing the doubts that had crowded his choices down to Bad and Worse, Mori thought he may as well include them all. In the days he'd spent staring at that invitation, he knew he couldn't share this with Arai, because for Arai it would all come down to the same implication: _You aren't one of us. You can't measure up, here._ Which was the furthest thing from the truth, and the last impression Mori wanted to leave him with. Especially in light of all the other tension and discomfort between them.

"You know your father doesn't like the phone. Neither does mine. It doesn't mean you're just a guest."

Mori shook his head. "It's our formalities. Our rules. It isn't like Karuizawa. We...." He studied the immaculate polish of the antique table between them; the fine wood grain, glowing like topaz. He thought of the old pine table in the kitchen at the summer estate, his favorite place to enjoy morning coffee, and the wobbly card table at the grocery, where Arai's uncle always had a game of checkers set out. He'd only been gone a day, but the homesickness was swamping him like an incoming tide. "In Karuizawa, he and I aren't so different."

All Arai had wanted was to spend time with him. Maybe they could've been talking tonight, with no other obligations, no interruptions to worry about. Maybe they could've sorted their tensions out, or simply discovered that with a little peace and quiet together, their familiar easy friendship returned on its own. Although that may have been too optimistic.

 _I still miss you,_ he thought. _Why am I here, when I miss you so much._

"You aren't so different here, either," Mitsukuni pointed out. Then he uncrossed his arms and leaned in, looking closely at Mori. "But that isn't the real problem, is it."

Mori shook his head. If he could explain the real problem, he would have. If it were one thing he could place words to, one event, one conversation even. But this was like waiting for a landslide; hearing rocks trickling down in handfuls, here and there, and there, before the whole hillside shifts and gives way. It was in the little hesitations when they spoke, both of them measuring their words before sharing them. It was in Arai's smiles; even on good days, a little less bright than he remembered, a little more guarded now.

It was in the space between them, too. They used to brush elbows, clasp hands, hang a casual arm off the others' shoulder; passing all these casual, comfortable signals back and forth, without a second thought. And now, instead, there was something like territory between them. A cautious observance of boundaries, as among strangers sharing an elevator.

"I don't know what it is," he admitted. He was relieved to notice that his cousin was no longer angry. But that didn't mean Mori was off the hook yet.

"Did you fight?"  
"No." A fight was something definitive. A fight, he could understand. But no, they were too careful for that. If anything, they aggressively avoided even the merest approach to disagreement. Rather than risk stepping into any minefields, they both kept absolutely still.

"Are you afraid of a fight?" asked Mitsukuni. And Mori's first instinct was to answer, yes, of course. Why wouldn't he be? It was perfectly reasonable to want to avoid a clash with someone you were close to.

But then something else spoke up in him. A sly quiet voice, which said, _That's not all. There are other reasons you're careful now._ It was something secret. That thing he'd kept locked up tight in himself, and always stood guard against. It crept out in his dreams sometimes. And sometimes, when he saw Arai in a certain light, glimpsed him in an unguarded moment, that something sidled up and whispered suggestions in his ear.

He saw no need to share this with his cousin or anyone else, however. As long as he kept it to himself, he could manage it. No one else ever need be troubled by it, and surely, eventually, it would pass.

Besides, he justified to himself (though he would sorely regret this later), Arai had hidden things too.

 

"I think," he told Mitsukuni, "we're both afraid of fighting." 

And then for long minutes, he sat and endured a meticulous, silent examination, and tried to remember that he was grateful for Mitsukuni's insight, his sharp intelligence. Even when it felt like dissection by laser; Mitsukuni peering through his skin down to his bones, and the marrow inside, preparing his merciless assessments.

"You're going to have to be braver than this, Takashi," was his final pronouncement. "It isn't going to get easier. Deciding things because you're afraid of what will happen, isn't the same as doing what's right. It doesn't help anyone."

At the time, Mori saw the validity of his message, but he mostly felt that Mitsukuni could've given him something more specific to work with. After all, he hadn't set out to wrong anyone. Given his options, he had made the best decisions he could. And he would be further put out with Mitsukuni's advice when, the first time he consciously tried to follow it, it backfired on him.

**


	7. Attic/Fracture/Threshold

Attic

Mori mounts the steps to the attic behind Kuki-chan ("Please be careful of the low ceiling, Takashi-sama"), still far closer to blind panic than he's comfortable with. But at least he's doing something. As long as he can keep busy, this agitation can't rise up and swallow him whole.

The attic is illuminated by a string of incandescent bulbs, widely spaced down the central roof beam. Under the sloping rafters, the light drops off, leaving the tiny space down at the eaves in murky darkness.

"Most of the ski equipment is stored this way," says Kuki-chan, leading the way to the rear of the attic, somewhere over the kitchen, Mori thinks. They pass rows of built-in shelving, cupboards and stacked drawers of cedar and sandalwood, and Mori remembers this is where the family once stored prized heirloom kimono and traditional formal wear, generations old. Some of it is on loan at a museum in Kyoto now. The rest got moved to the vaults in the Tokyo house, for insurance reasons.

He wonders if everyone dwells on useless details like this, when their mind is threatening to come apart.

He passes ancient steamer trunks with rusted brass latches, tall wooden crates with threads of packing straw curling out from the slats. Dry, crumbly wicker baskets and animal traps, from the days when family still hunted on estate lands. He spots an old bear trap, wide jaws and jagged iron teeth, and shivers.

"Seems a little spooky here, doesn't it?" Kuki-chan stands hesitantly in the shadow of a towering armoire, half-draped in a white dust sheet. Between the shadows and the groaning of the wind from overhead, Mori has to admit she's right. It's colder up here, too.

"Ah. Sakura-san always says I'm being silly. It's only an attic, full of things that gather dust." The girl shakes her head briskly, doubtless chastening herself on Sakura-san's behalf. "Well. Everything is back here, if Takashi-sama wishes to see."

There is a frustrating amount of it to choose from. At least for someone in Mori's state of mind. Trunks of ski clothing, gloves and goggles. Skis, poles, snow boots. An elaborate old-fashioned sled, hand-carved, and painted glossy red.

He takes the heavy gloves, and a set of insulated coveralls which might fit, if he's lucky. He finds three pairs of snowshoes with the bindings still intact, and tries very hard not to picture a long trek through deep-piled drifts, in search of an overturned vehicle. He holds his breath and swallows against the panic, swelling, threatening to crest and spill over like a river flood.

It is in this moment of cold clarity, that he realizes the thing he's most feared is coming to pass. What he has most wished to avoid all along, he has somehow brought upon himself regardless.

He's being left behind again. Even without the--god, horrifying--possibility of a truck overturned in a deep frozen ditch, somewhere. Mori will still end up alone. Arai had left days ago, hurt and unhappy, and rightfully frustrated at Mori's glaring incompetence with close relationships. 

Mitsukuni was right, of course. Mori made poor decisions because he was afraid. Given the chance to act forthrightly, he'd instead chosen the path that he thought would spare him grief. And in the end, that had failed. Grief has come for him; he has brought it needlessly on them both.

Now, the best possible scenario is that Mori might have the chance to apologize. His apology may never be accepted; he may never regain the blessing of Arai's trust and affection, as he has known them. But if Arai is alive and unharmed, and able to hear his apology, Mori has no right to ask for anything more.

Somewhere outside the dark resignation closing in on him, Mori is aware of Kuki-chan kneeling down, saying something soft and sympathetic. He doesn't particularly want to hear any sympathy, but he's aware the girl is surmounting her usual timidity to make a kind gesture, and he knows that deserves some reciprocation.

"Please forgive me for speaking out of turn, Takashi-sama." Pinching her apron hem between her small, slender fingers, eyes trained on her knees.  
"It's all right." He makes an effort to loosen his grip on the snowshoes. They're no good if he breaks them. "Thank you for your help."

"I only....that is, Takashi-sama should know he doesn't have to worry. Even if the groundskeeper and Takashi-sama have trouble on the road, the mountain rescue team will come. They have helicopters and snowmobiles. They saved my grandfather once, when he was caught in an avalanche. So. So I know Arai-kun will be okay too."

Helicopters. Snowmobiles. These options hadn't occurred to him, before. Though the thought does bring a miniscule amount of comfort, now. There are more resources available, in case the emergency is extreme. And so long as the worst hasn't already come to pass, so long as Arai is not entirely beyond hope, Mori himself will live.

"Thank you," he says again, sincerely, and at least for the moment, breathing seems to come a little easier.

**

Fracture

 

Mori awoke from a dark overheated dream, to the muggy August night in his bedroom. His sheets were twisted and the air was too close, too still. The dream was still lingering in his bones and limbs, tempting him with phantom sensations. It was one of those dreams again, and his only escape would be another cold shower.

_"Touch me," Arai whispered, eyes closed, baring his slim white throat. "Please, let me feel you...."_

 

He awoke in late September, the air coming cool through his bedroom window. Kicking the sheets away, he pushed up off the bed. This had to stop. He was losing too much sleep, and possibly losing his mind as well.

He made it to the bathroom by concentrating on every step, but something about the moonlight pouring over the tile, the wet shiny look of it--

_sweat darkens the hair at his temples, his naked chest gleams, and oh Mori wants to lick every centimeter of this body, stretching languid under his hands._

 

It was October, and he sank to his knees on the chilly tile, tipping his forehead against the wall by his shower. His heart was kicking and thumping in his chest, and under his cotton robe, sweat trickled down his ribs. He was overheated, dizzy....

_tongue wetting bruised lips, hands flung outward, palms-up, soft eyes at half-mast imploring him.  
"You want this, don't you? Show me you want me."_

 

It was always like this. He could hold out for weeks, but always ended up here, yanking at the knot on his obi, biting his lip hard to keep from gasping. Just this once. If he could just take the edge off, he'd be able to think again. The heel of his hand brushed his stomach on the way down and he flinched, stifled a sob. There was never a soul in this end of the house to hear him, but if he heard his own voice echoing off the walls, he would crack, he couldn't bear it.

_The curve of a hip, sun bronzed shoulders flexing, legs shifting restlessly and those sighs, those soft delicious noises. Mori wants to catch and swallow every one of them._

There was nothing else for it, he always told himself. He could only fight this off for so long.  
 _\--strong thighs straddling his lap, and a firm hand reaching down to grip him. Heat, steady pressure, and a slow stroke down._

November, December, and each time, he knew it wasn't right; his body thrummed, and his conscience flayed him for it. He was a thief, a trespasser, down on his sweat-slick knees on the tile, spreading wider. Seeing that honest, innocent face flushed with the same hunger that Mori could feel, curling its tendrils in him. Imagining the voice that has laughed for him, comforted him, urging him to take and use and want.

_You like that? Is it good? I want to make it good for you._

This wasn't them. This wasn't what he loved. But he hissed out the name anyway, knuckles pressed against his lips, between choked-down, _almost_ silent breaths. His other hand was chafing him; he should've grabbed something from the cupboard to help, but he truly was too far gone to care. He pushed into his fist, thinking of a wry expressive mouth, making it demanding, making it hurt just enough.

Mori would never hurt. He'd never bruise--  
 _....his fingertips digging into hard muscle, into the legs wrapped around him, teeth catching his earlobe, and then a voice hot and scratchy as a woolen mitten against his ear:  
"Do it harder."_

He was always desperate and too rough, and he'd never wanted anything this raw before. It was just the night, too much eroding his will, too much smoldering in him already. He just had to purge this, so he could think again. So he could forget that dream, when the sun came up. So he could offer Arai something better, saner, than this devouring greed.

**

 

Threshold

When Mori finally broke, when he finally was forced to explain his fears and doubts and bad choices, it was too late, the wrong time, and the wrong thing to say.

It started in the residence wing, with the stripe of pale skin under Arai's shirt, when he tugged his damp sweatshirt off over his head. It started with the back of Arai's neck in the pool house, hypnotizing Mori for two hours, into a state of ragged helplessness. It started with Arai's hand on his arm, tongue peeking out to wet his lips, then a shuffle and cough down the corridor, and something in Mori crumbled like a column of ash on a burning incense stick. 

The next thing he knew, he was dragging Arai through the first side door at hand, pulling him close in the cedar-sweet darkness of the linen closet, and burying his face against Arai's warm damp throat.

Something had been simmering in Mori, something dangerous and unstable, deep beneath the surface for much too long, and there in that dark narrow space, it boiled over. Arai made a hoarse sound and clutched at Mori's shoulders, and Mori caught his mouth in a hard, messy kiss. There was a blind scuffling of hands and knees, and then his shoulders were pinned against a shelf, and the firm, naked arch of Arai's back flexed under his palms.

"Please. Don't stop this time--okay?" Arai whispered, between kisses that scorched every memory of every other kiss they'd shared, left them all pale and dry as weeds at the end of a long drought. He shifted a knee between Mori's legs, pressing himself snug and close, and just before the hard shock of pleasure rolled over him, Mori thought, _This time?_

But there was Arai's tongue flicking into his mouth, and the incredible smoothness of his skin, and his delicious shiver, when Mori's fingers skimmed the waistband of his sweatpants, then stretched the elastic to slip beneath. 

There hadn't been any time remotely like this, except for in Mori's most fevered dreams. And even those were different, because they were out in the open, under slow-drifting skies, and--.

They were always out in the open, in his dreams.

_I didn't think Arai-kun was someone you would hide,_ Mitsukuni had said, and Mori flinched from the memory like he'd been slapped.

He couldn't breathe. He couldn't see, and he couldn't breathe, and this wasn't right. This was cowardly, shameful; ducking into a closet for desperate gratification because he'd been too terrified of what would happen if he took Arai to his bed.

"Takashi?" Arai's fingers patting gently at his cheek. "Hey, you okay?"

"Forgive me," he gasped out, and bolted.

Some deeply phobic impulse made him bypass his room, and head straight for his father's study. Perhaps he was seeking some fortification, or perhaps he wanted the one place where he couldn't conceivably be tempted to misconduct. His groin ached and his mouth burned, and when he reached his father's desk, he gripped the carved edge until his fingertips went white, head down and shoulders trembling.

"What's wrong? What happened?" Arai stood at the threshold, arms crossed at the elbows, and if Mori looked, if he turned right now and met his eyes...

"I can't." Breathe. Breathe and hang on to this one thing until the world levels out. If you look at him now, you're lost.

"You can't? Did I--was it bad?"

_I can't do it again. I can't hang my whole existence on you and then watch you leave. Please don't ask this of me. Ask anything else. I'll give you anything._

Mori shook his head and dragged another dry breath down his throat. He needed words. Arai needed words. But all Mori had was the emptiness of a gravel driveway two years ago, night after night, and the nightmare of dark water closing over his head, all that loss and grief, and the echoing shell of himself, drifting through so many empty days. He had lived through it, but it had never truly left him. All this time, it had been waiting for another chance at him. Waiting until he surrendered himself, body and soul to someone.

"I thought. Because of last time. You'd like that." Arai's voice was getting smaller with every word. Mori could hear it pulling away to someplace distant and broken, and he knew if he didn't try to listen, push back his fear long enough to understand, Arai might never trust anyone, ever again.

"Last time?" He looked to the edge of the rug, Arai's white socks on the threshold.  
"I just thought--well, you fell asleep that time. But I." He shifted his balance, curling the toes of one foot, and Mori, listening hard, felt a strange creeping chill. "I really liked it."

Fell asleep? What was he talking about? Mori was certain he'd remember every detail of something like....what they'd just been doing. And as for falling asleep, how on earth could he have--.

Autumn: the rain. He barely recalled anything after those first two nights he'd stayed awake. Just the morning he came to, fully dressed in his bed, with a glass of water and a note at the bedside:  
 _Sorry I had to leave before you woke up. I hope you got some rest._

What had they done, before he fell asleep? Mori knew it would be incredibly poor form to ask, at this particular moment. Even worse, to admit he remembered nothing at all.

Unfortunately, his puzzlement gave him away.  
"Wait. You mean you don't....oh. You were pretty out of it." And this time, Mori had to look, because that tone. He knew that. It was the voice behind Arai's small, broken-hearted smile, and Mori's own heart wrenched at seeing it.

"I am sorry. I didn't mean--."  
"Please don't say that," Arai cut in, still smiling, with eyes brimming and too bright.

The thing Mori had come to want the most, was the thing he was most afraid of. The plain fact of their circumstances was that they lived separate lives. With separate obligations, separate responsibilities. The fact was that Arai was needed at the grocery every morning at dawn, and when there was work at the estate, Mori was needed more or less constantly.

He had thought it through from every conceivable angle, and always reached the same outcome.

"I have to be able to let you go." It wasn't what he particularly wanted, it was simply the only option which allowed him to hang on to his sanity. Mostly.

Arai stood perfectly still for several seconds, and as Mori watched the color drain from his cheeks, he knew he'd said it wrong. He knew he should've explained, fully and patiently, months ago. Back when the fears and the dreams first disturbed their easy, peaceful companionship. Now it was too late. Now there was hurt involved, and trust had been breached, and if he went to Arai now, if he crossed the space between them, he would simply give up. He would surrender the last scrap of self-control he possessed.

"I should. I should get going."  
"Please," Mori said. _Please don't be hurt anymore. Please don't break over this. Please don't leave me alone._

"There's weather coming in." Arai turned slowly toward the hall, eyes fixed on a far vacancy, and Mori knew he was waiting to hear that the weather was still half a day away.

But Mori said nothing. And a few seconds later, Arai was gone.

**


	8. Rescue

Rescue

 

The wind has died down, but the snow is still falling, when Mori treks out to the garage to meet Hito and Oshiro, the groundskeeper. He stomps through ankle-deep powder; not quite to the tops of his insulated boots, but close. The snow falls straight and slow, and the air feels frozen to stillness.

Oshiro drives the skid-steer loader out first, clearing the drive past the kitchen door, so that Mori can bring his four-by-four up to the steps, and load it with snowshoes, the First Aid supplies, a pile of blankets, and sundry other odds and ends he'd carried down from the attic.

He packs carefully. He doesn't rush. He double-checks the shovels, the pickaxe, the heavy tow strap, and the lift jacks. He checks the snow chains on all four tires, and the pair of short-range radios he and Oshiro will use to communicate between their vehicles. He is the very picture of calm throughout.

He checks his pocket for his mobile. Wireless coverage is generally spotty out here, but if he needs the phone, he'll at least have it. He even checks the lid on the thermos of hot cocoa Sakura-san pressed on him at the last moment, along with some harrowing instructions on the warning signs of hypothermia.

Then he climbs into his Land Rover, closes the door, pulls on his seatbelt, and finds his hands are shaking so badly he can't turn the ignition.

He closes his eyes. _Fall apart on your own time. He needs help now._

The radio on the dashboard chirps. "Alright, boss," calls Oshiro. "I'm gonna head out now, nice and easy. Just give yourself plenty of room behind me."

Mori juggles the radio in his bulky gloves, and finds the Talk button. "Understood. Go ahead."  
Just follow the loader. Just that for now. Keeping this one goal in sight, he reaches again for the ignition, turns it, and shifts his truck into 4-Low.

**

By the time they reach the bottom of the estate driveway, Mori understands that this could be a very long night. Top speed on the loader is somewhere in the neighborhood of eleven kilometers an hour. But that's on clear asphalt, with the shovel raised.

"Okay, hold up, boss," Oshiro calls. "I'm puttin' the shovel down now." Mori brakes accordingly, and runs the wipers to clear the accumulation of snow from his windshield. It's still coming down. Not thick, but steadily.

"Looks like we got....saa, thirty centimeters? Some bad drifts, though. You stay in my tracks, and we'll be good."

Mori wonders if he should answer, 'Roger that', or 'Ten-Four', like they do in the movies. Then he thinks, all things considered, it hardly matters. "Thanks."

About ten meters out on the main road the loader stops again, and Oshiro aims a heavy-duty industrial flashlight out against the high-banked snow on the road's right side. Taking his cue, Mori pulls out his own flashlight and sweeps it up the opposite side of the road, checking carefully for the telltale reflection off metal and glass, or any unusual shape breaking the smooth contours of the snowbank.

After a few moments, the loader creeps forward, and Mori follows.

The minutes stretch out painfully. Mori rolls along behind Oshiro, scanning every meter of glittering, unbroken, lumpy white they pass. Outside the beam of his flashlight and headlights, it's pitch dark. After what seems like a long time, his eyes start playing tricks on him.

He slams on the brakes, when he thinks he spots the shape of a tire, poking up from the left ditch.

"You good there, boss?" The tinny crackle of Oshiro's voice snaps him out of his frozen horror. He's panting. The loader is ten meters ahead. Mori blinks and aims the flashlight again, and all he sees is a snow-covered boulder.  
He takes a second to make sure his voice will work. "It's nothing."

"No worries. Can't be too careful. We take it nice and slow, and we can't miss anything."

For the first time, Mori recognizes the easygoing cadence of the voice on the radio for what it is: Oshiro is trying to keep him from panicking. And for some obscure reason, it's working. 

He lets off the brake and eases the truck forward, still holding the radio. "You've done this before."  
Oshiro's answer is matter-of-fact. "Most folks who live out here get to do this, sooner or later."

Mori has a feeling there's a story there. Maybe several. And at some future point, he'll consider that further. For now, it's enough to know he has someone with experience on his side.

**

It's the middle of the night, and colder than a sonofabitch in the gazebo. Arai stamps his feet on the steps and tucks his gloved hands up into his armpits. He can see his breath, pluming out in the light of the old-fashioned wrought iron park light nearby. From somewhere, far down the street, he hears somebody's dogs barking. Big dogs, from the sound of it, with big growling woofs. Newfoundlands, or mastiffs, maybe.

"It's been a long night," says a deep voice in the shadows, and Arai cocks his head, squints at the man walking slowly into the light. He notes the broad shoulders, high cheekbones, black hair slightly disheveled, and his heart wedges itself at a funny, familiar angle against his ribs. He's grinning before he can help it, just a breath a way from his favorite name--.

But the man pauses, full in the pooling lamplight, and it isn't Takashi. And that's when Arai thinks, quite distinctly, _Oh, I'm dreaming._

The man isn't Takashi, but the resemblance is uncanny. He is what Takashi will be in another thirty, forty years perhaps. With weathered creases along the eyes, and silver at his temples. A shade softer along the jawline, and stouter through the chest. But his stance, and the sharpness of his dark eyes, those are Takashi through and through.

"Ichigo-sama." He knows this is a dream, but Arai nonetheless feels compelled into a low, formal bow. He wonders at that, and then when he straightens up, he worries for a second. He's heard things before, read stories about people's ancestors showing up in dreams.

"I'm not dead, am I?" he blurts and then, embarrassed, adds, "Sorry, that was rude."

Morinozuka Ichigo's look of dry amusement is all his own. "Are you still cold?"  
"Yeah, it's freezing out here." Even in this heavy jacket, with his gloves on, it's barely tolerable. Why couldn't he have dreamed up a nice fireplace, or a hot spring?

"Then you're probably still in good shape. You'll want to wake up soon, though. Don't want them to miss you, when they come."

Arai has no idea who 'they' might be, or even where he's supposed to wake up. If he concentrates hard, it might come to him, but for the moment this is more interesting. Hanging out at the municipal gardens with Takashi's great-grandfather. It's cool. He'll have to remember to tell Takashi about it.

"So. What brings you out here, sir?" Because it occurs to him that Takashi might like to know what they talked about.  
Ichigo contemplates the lamp post for a bit. "I'm keeping an eye on things."

_Ah,_ Arai thinks. _It runs in the family._ Takashi prefers giving short, pithy answers too. When they first became friends, Arai used to feel like he had to roll up his sleeves and work, to get a conversation started. And then he realized that the awkwardness was just him, and he learned to relax.

"I approve of the progress he's made," says Ichigo, and Arai is glad he's had so much practice following along in conversations like this.  
"Takashi's worked really hard this year," he says. "Your land, it means everything to him." Although why that should cause him a tiny little twinge inside, he can't say.

"Hm. Make sure and harvest the pears next fall. It should be a healthy crop."

Arai straightens and nods. "Yes sir."  
"And take care of the things that grow."  
"Right, got it." Maybe he should be taking notes on this?

Ichigo crosses his hands behind his back and turns, and Arai leaves off frowning down the street. Those dogs are really kicking up a fuss. But Ichigo is watching him, waiting, it looks like.

"Anything else, sir?" His legs are going to pins and needles from the cold. He has a strong urge to stretch them out, which is odd, considering he's already standing up. But there's something more important going on, so he tries to pay attention.

"Yes," says Ichigo. "Two more things...."

**

The gazebo and gardens have faded, and Arai is laying down in a cramped, freezing space. His legs ache, his back is stiff, and the shivers come in heavy shuddering spasms. His lips are cold and chapped. His eyelids are cold, shit. There's this noise, a growling racket from somewhere. And it's totally, completely dark.

First he tries to stretch his legs, relieve the burning ache, but one foot clunks against something solid, and the other hits a--.

"GAHH!!" He yells and flails at the blaring horn, startling him to full awakeness, and it all comes on him at once: the truck, the snow, stuck on the side of the road and freezing to death.

"Flashlight, flashlight..." He feels around blindly, kicks the horn a few more times struggling to sit up, knocking his elbow against the dash. His teeth are rattling like a pair of dice in a wooden cup. 

He scrabbles around the seat, the floorboard, feels his way up the dash. But the flashlight is nowhere, and in the swallowing darkness, he pictures the truck, buried under meters and meters of snow, with him at the bottom, trapped alive.

In that one crystal-sharp instant, Arai realizes he is just about to completely lose it. He squeezes his fists against his eyes, whole body tremoring, tears swelling and stinging in his sinuses, and what.... 

What in the hell is that godawful noise? He thinks it's the sound of overwhelming fear, the howling of his sanity cutting loose. It's getting louder, rumbling toward him, and--

Two things happen. He thinks: _Snow Plow,_ and his eyes pop wide open. That's when he sees the winking orange light of the hazard indicator on the dash.

_"Oh. And don't forget to turn your headlights on."_ A distant snatch of conversation floating back to him; somebody told him that, recently. And he gets it, now.

"Hey!" he yells, and leans hard on the horn, knocking his hand against the gear shift, the turn indicator, the wipers--ah. The headlights. Because the door could be frozen shut, they won't see him in the dark, and he'll only get one chance at this....

He turns the switch, and nothing happens.

He pounds the steering wheel, grits his teeth and screeches out his desperate frustration. The battery's frozen-- _fuck_ \--and the snow plow is practically on him, he can hear it, and in his mind's eye he sees it trundling past, into the night....

_Turn the truck on, dumbass,_ his common sense wakes up and grouches at him.

Oh. Right.

Accessory power on, and the dash blinks to life, and he's leaning on the horn, flicking the high beams, with the vents blasting frigid air at him, and it's now or never. He grabs the latch on the passenger-side door, and throws his whole weight against it.


	9. Wreckage

Wreckage

 

Mori taps the brakes and grabs the radio. "Stop. I think I hear something."  
He switches off the heater, and rolls down the window, as the loader rolls to a halt. Squinting against the freezing air, he strains his ears, for the dissonant staccato note he'd picked up just a second before.

A few snowflakes hurry in on a draft of cold air, catching his eyelashes, and he smells the frozen crisp night, clouded with diesel exhaust. He listens, willing the sound to come again. His truck idles quietly, but he'd heard it over his engine. He's certain of that.

_Come on...._ He plays his flashlight over the snow, on the right side of the road, and then the left. Studying every crevice, every curve in the soft white. Up ahead, Oshiro's flashlight sweeps the road, the shoulder.

"You want me to cut the motor?" Oshiro calls, and what Mori wants is a fan the size of a house to blow all this hateful snow away. He wants banks of stadium lights, to turn the whole section of highway into blazing noonday.  
"No," he answers, biting back on his discouragement. He will search this road as long as he has to. Every square centimeter of it, if that's what it takes. He will search until sunup, and keep searching. He won't rest, until he sees Arai with his own eyes, sees him safe again.

"I got nothing here. Let me--whoa, hang on a sec--"  
The horn blares out again, long blasts, and Mori is trying to wrestle off his seatbelt, and tune in the direction of the noise.

"I got some headlights on the shoulder, up ahead," Oshiro reports, close to shouting in his excitement. "I'll get past it, and clear the road for you. It's a knee-deep mess up here."

 

Mori has just pulled even with the grocery truck, tilted half-off the left shoulder, when the door flies open and a bundled figure tumbles out in a shower of clumped snow, flounders briefly, then clambers upright, blinking wide-eyed into Mori's headlights, and Mori barely remembers to set the parking brake, before he's hauling himself across and out the passenger-side door.

Arai shields his eyes, heedless of the dusting of snow down his front, watching the skid-steer loader make a grumbling, grinding, four-point turn in the middle of the road.  
"What the--?" He glances, and then double-takes at Mori. "Ta-Takashi?"

Mori wades through the snow to reach him. He's not feeling the cold, he's not seeing the snow drifts up past the tops of his boots, he isn't aware of anything except Arai, staring dumbfounded at him, wracked with shivers, with his knit cap askew on his head, and Mori's relief is swelling so huge he can barely contain it, now that this painful, rigid compression in him can finally let go.

All the hours of waiting, all the torment and terrible presentiments he's been conjuring, it is all coming loose in him at once. "Are you hurt?" He's overcome by the compulsion to check Arai all over, count every hair on his head, just to prove for certain that yes, he is safe, he really is here.

"N-no, not at all. I--what is th-that, your loader?" He's freezing, Mori realizes, curling in over his crossed arms, teeth chattering.  
"We have to get you warmed up," reaching for Arai's arm to lead him. "I have blankets in the truck."  
"You're crazy." Arai takes in Mori's gloves, his ski coveralls, the snow chains on the Land Rover's tires. "How b-bad is the road?"

"It was almost an hour from the estate drive." He gets his arm around Arai's shoulders, feels him shuddering. But he's here. He isn't injured. Just very, very cold. "We'll make better time on the way back--"  
"Uh, just a--"  
"--Sakura-san has called your--what is it?" Mori breaks off, as Arai squirms and cranes back around to assess the grocery truck.

"Aw, man. That is g-gonna be a bitch to dig out."

Mori stares. He can't be serious. "We'll have to come back for it tomorrow. When the sun's up, we--."  
"What? No way. I can't just leave it out here." Before Mori can stop him, Arai ducks out from under his arm, and stomps back to his truck. "I got a shovel, I'll just dig the tires out, and follow behind you guys..." He leans into the truck, rummages around for several seconds, while Mori stands in speechless bafflement, and finally emerges with a lightweight shovel.

"It won't take ten minutes," he calls over his shoulder, and straightaway sets to work on the nearest front tire.

Mori is aware of the loader, turned for the trip home, now trundling around past the Land Rover. He's aware of his nerves, stretched to a screaming tension for half the night, all at once fraying.

"This is insanity." He sets off on a march toward Arai. "Listen to me, it's too cold. We have to get out of this weather. You're frozen," he insists, but Arai keeps his head down, shoveling as fast as possible.

"Once the plows pass," Mori tries, but Arai shakes his head.  
"No good. They'll bury it. If they don't see it, they might wreck it."

"I cannot let you do this." Mori grabs his shoulder, frantic to get his attention, make him stop for just a moment and see reason. "The truck can be repaired. I'll cover the costs, it doesn't--."

"Don't say it doesn't matter! Money doesn't fix this, Takashi!" Arai jerks away from Mori's hand, slams the shovel into the snow and whirls on him. He is furious to the point of tears, and Mori flinches backward absolute shock. 

"God, you just don't--. I know I've completely screwed everything up, but _I_ have to fix this, _me_!" Pounding his chest for emphasis. "How's my uncle ever supposed to trust me, if I just go off and leave this? How am I even gonna to look him in the eye again? If he can't trust me, I've got nothing, _nothing_ , do you get that?"

He is shaking all over with anger and cold, and Mori cannot move. He is incapable of any response whatsoever. He has never seen Arai so angry, had no idea this was in him. Mori feels like he's been struck in the face, and the blow reverberates through him, sending cracks through the ground at his feet, and everything is crumbling, breaking apart.

 

"Looks like you could use a hand there, Sport." Mori wasn't even aware of Oshiro sidling up, but there the man stands, with an appraising eye on the grocery truck, gloved hands buried in his coat pockets. "I reckon if we dig out the tires, I could tow you back on the road."

Arai swallows and swipes his sleeve across his eyes, blinking hard. "C-could you? Oh man, I'd appreciate that so much." 

Mori, still reeling, just stares at the groundskeeper. Was he the only person here who hadn't lost his mind? And then Oshiro addresses him.  
"Morinozuka-sama, would it be permissible for us to use the shovels and the tow strap in your vehicle?"

_Now he's speaking deferentially?_ Mori wonders.  
"I think if you and I take the back tires, and Arai-san finishes here, it will go quickly," the man explains, calm as can be. "We can be on the road in just a few minutes. We'll put your back chains on his front tires, and he can drive between us. If that's acceptable to you."

Unfortunately, Mori is in no condition to find any flaw in the plan. All he's certain of is that in his thoughtless urgency, he's blundered across some critical fault line, and offended Arai unforgivably. He suspects that the only way he can salvage the situation now--or at least avoid making things worse--is by removing himself from it.

"I'll get the shovels," he says.

 

**

 

Once he got moving, got his blood flowing again, Arai felt better--a little warmer, at least--but now, he just feels like shit.

"I'm an asshole," he mumbles to Oshiro, after Takashi goes trudging off. "It's alright, you can say it." He knows it's all hopeless now. He can't even believe the words that came out of his mouth--stupid, desperate, awful words. He's hurt Takashi, bad, after Takashi came all the way out here and saved him, in the middle of the night. He hates himself so much, right now.

But it was like, the whole night of being trapped and scared, and the miserable week since he last saw Takashi, and all the worry and tension going on before that, it had all rolled over him at once, in a massive black tidal wave, and before he knew it he was yelling and flailing just like crazy drowning people do.

"Eh, so you got a little wound up," shrugs Oshiro, who is surely the most laid-back guy in all of Nagano right now. "You feeling okay, otherwise?"  
Arai shoots him a skeptical look. He feels horrible. What's the man getting at?

"Are you still feeling cold?" Oshiro clarifies, and whoa. Arai shakes off a weird shiver of deja-vu.  
"Yeah, I'm cold as hell. Aren't you?"

"With late-stage hypothermia, folks sometimes say they're feeling warm," Oshiro explains. "Can you still wiggle your toes?"  
Arai gives it a try. "Yeah." His feet are throbbing like crazy, though.

"Good deal." Oshiro leans over and tugs Arai's knit cap down over his ears. "You're probably fine for another twenty minutes out here. But I'm telling you now," aiming a finger at him. "You start gettin' disoriented or weird, and I'm packing you in that Land Rover with some blankets, myself. We clear on that?"  
The man is dead serious now, and Arai nods, seeing that's really his only choice. "Yeah. No problem."

"Cool," Oshiro says, turning just in time to meet Takashi, coming back with the shovels.

Arai's guilt twists in his gut, he feels physically ill from it, seeing Takashi silently hand over a shovel, with his shoulders bent and his eyes averted. Arai watches, and he is right on the brink of taking it all back. Saying, _This isn't worth it. This is stupid. I'll go back with you now, if it will make it better._ If it would change that stricken, spiritless look Takashi has now. If it would help him straighten up, and look strong and sure again, because that's how Takashi is supposed to be, how he should always be, and even after everything, Arai cannot bear seeing him any other way.

But it's too late for that. He's gotten his way, and now he has to live with it; even though the cost is more than he can stand right now, and he will go on paying it for a long time. He'd pushed it to this, and now he has to see it through.

Takashi and Oshiro head off for the back of the truck, and Arai looks at his left front tire, and even though what he really wants to do is sob like a little kid, he sets his grip on his shovel, and starts digging again, instead.

**

The only mercy in the whole ordeal, is that it doesn't take long at all. Oshiro did know what he was talking about, there. They get the grocery truck off the shoulder, and out to the cleared center of the road, and in a significant stroke of luck, Takashi's chains actually do fit the tires. Which is good, because traction is pretty dicey, even where the loader shovel has cleared most of the snow.

Before they all climb in their vehicles to start the long trek back, Oshiro gives them a last talk. He and Takashi will communicate with the two walkie-talkies they have, he explains, and Arai is to drive between them, leaving plenty of follow distance behind the loader. If he gets into trouble, all he has to do is honk his horn, and stop. If he starts feeling too sleepy to drive, or if he gets confused, just stop. That's all he has to do.

And then, because Oshiro is obviously some kind of mind reader, in addition to being a roadside rescue expert, he adds, "Don't think you have to suck it up and be a hero, Sport. It's a lot easier to tow you from the middle of the road, than off the shoulder, after we drag you outta the driver's seat. You got that?" 

Arai nods promptly, and says yes, because Oshiro has that same no-nonsense expression he had before, and it's pretty damn sobering. Not to mention that trying to suck it up and be a hero has gotten him into more than enough crap lately; a fact which has been dawning on him, ever since he watched Takashi heading off to help dig the tires out, looking like somebody had burned his house down, with his puppy trapped inside.

Arai is just. So tired. Not sleepy-tired, like Oshiro's concerned about. He's tired of being unhappy all the time. He's tired of guilt, tired of trying so hard to hold things up, hold it together, and failing at every turn. He's tired of everything important slipping from his hands, the tighter he tries to hold on, like out on the beach, back when he was a kid; squeezing fistfuls of sand as hard as he could, and watching it spill out the bottom of his fist, until there was nothing but grit sticking to his sweaty palms. 

**

He kicks most of the snow off his boots, and climbs back into the grocery truck. It's going to be a long ride back in his damp jeans, and his face stings from cold and wind burn, but the one bright spot out of everything, is that very soon, he's going to have the heater running. It's not much in the bigger scheme of things, but it's something to look forward to, anyway.

There's a crunching in the snow, just before he shuts the truck door, and he glances back and sees Takashi approaching cautiously, cradling something in his gloved hands, and watching his footing. Arai wonders if it will always hurt this much to look at him, from now on. If it will always slice him open like this. He hopes not, because he really can't take it.

"I forgot this," says Takashi, holding out a stainless steel thermos. "Sakura-san sent it, for you."  
"Oh." Arai takes the thermos, not sure what else to do. At this point he'd do anything at all Takashi asked him. He'd go lay down in front of that skid-steer loader, if it would make Takashi happy. "Thank you."   
"It's cocoa. Probably still hot."

"I shouldn't have yelled at you. That was totally out of line." Arai had no idea that would come out of him, until it does. To his further surprise, he finds himself grabbing the sleeve of Takashi's coat. Because he needs to touch him, to reach him, just for one more second, before he slips away completely. "I didn't mean that thing, about the money. I never thought about you like that."

Takashi frowns very hard at his boots. "I wasn't listening properly. You were right to be angry."

"Angry?" His dry, edgy laugh takes them both by surprise. "I was scared to death. I just....went crazy. I'm not mad at you."  
And now Takashi is looking at him. Searching him closely; for the truth, or for hope, or maybe for the answer to some question locked up tight in his own head. Arai has no idea. Takashi is looking at him, he's not going away, and at this precise moment, that's almost enough.

"Thank you. For coming out here. I really should've said that before. Thank you."  
"Everyone helped." Takashi glances down at the thermos, propped on Arai's knee. "We couldn't have left you alone." 

And there, yet again, Arai is ridiculously close to choking up. Because it's not himself he pictures being left alone, but Takashi. And he knows, if their positions were reversed, he would have moved heaven and earth, in a blind frenzy, to make sure Takashi was okay. Nothing would have stopped him, and looking at Takashi now, he believes that surely Takashi must have felt the same thing.

A blizzard couldn't keep them apart. Iced-over roads, snow up past their ankles, and the total darkness surrounding them couldn't stop Takashi from reaching him. So what in the hell was keeping them apart before? What was all that stuff that got between them? Did it even matter?

"You're amazing, you know that?" For some reason, it seems important to say this, right now, while he can. It's something Arai has always thought, that Takashi is _extraordinary_ , but he can't remember if he's ever told him. In fact, there are probably dozens of things he's never told Takashi, that he should have. And now he really wants to. He wants that chance back, to tell Takashi all these things that he deserves to hear every single day. "You are the best person I've ever met."

Takashi's gaze cuts to one side, and he frowns and shifts his boots in the snow. Arai gets the feeling he'd debate the point, if he trusted the footing between them a little more. Instead, he focuses toward the beam of the truck headlights, and then looks up.

"It's stopped snowing."  
"Oh?" Arai cranes his head out of the truck cab, looking up into a dense black sky. No moon or stars, but no snow falling either. And he remembers now, that there are people at Takashi's house, waiting on them to come back, and his uncle is back in town, waiting on any news of him at all.

"Guess we should head out, huh. Let them know we're okay." Or at least reasonably in one piece. Given the last several minutes and the past few months, okay is probably still a ways off.

"Hm." Takashi looks at him steadily for a moment, then takes a short step back. "Be careful. I'll be right behind you."

"I know," Arai nods, and manages to drag up a smile for him. He knows it's a weary, banged-up, tarnished-looking thing. Not his best effort, but at least it's real, this time. He's not sure why, but for the first time in a while, it feels like something worth hanging on to.


End file.
